Lease Or Buy
by Bibliotecaria.D
Summary: Once upon a commerce society, a merchant found an unconventional way to profit. Not everyone understands just what it is he does for money.
1. Chapter 1

**_Once upon a commerce society, a merchant found an unconventional way to profit. Not everyone understands just what it is he does for money._**

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**Title: **Lease or Buy

**Warning: **Pet play

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

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**Part One**

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Once upon a commerce society, a merchant wandered into a deal outside his usual realm of experience…

Eh, scrap that. It was true, but life on Cybertron was no fairy tale. A merchant who normally dealt in heavy armament beheld an opportunity for some light trading, and he went for it. It worked out. Credits changed hands, and it was more enjoyable for the merchant than anticipated. He decided this type of deal was good for himself, personally, if not necessarily for his normal side of business: no pressure, lots of positive attention, and money as a reward for sacrificing his free time. That was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

He hung out his sign in the new trade, as it were, and didn't expect more than a few customers. His prediction fell far short of the mark, however. It turned out that the particular sector of the commerce society he worked in was short on mechs like him. Word got around. Offers poured in. The merchant, somewhat to his surprise, found that there were plenty of buyers looking for a willing to throw their credits at him. They competed to buy him in his off-time. They gave him gifts and all but adored him, treating him with utmost respect even as they hired him. He fulfilled their wishes, and in return, they would do almost anything to keep him happy and on the market.

The merchant discovered that he liked that. Caution relaxed into a lazy, discreet kind of comfort with the new business side of his life.

Then Kaon, Onslaught, and Shockwave happened. The Detention Centre kind of put a crimp on business overall, much less leisure-time activities.

Earth also happened, however. Earth was an open market. The merchant quickly buried himself in new business on the black market, the stock market, any market he found, and he was happy. Primus, was he ever happy. It wasn't the galactic market, but humans dealt in some _nice_ weaponry. A few improvements, barely even a drop of alien technology, and the humans fought over themselves to throw money in his direction. He made money hand over fist, minimal effort and maximum return.

Outside of the markets, Earth wasn't a paradise for Swindle. Cybertron hadn't been his fairy tale beginning, nor was the middle anything but a war for survival. And credits, of course. Swindle could do business under the worst of conditions. He was no princess. He knew how to fight to get what he wanted. Nobody would save him, and he'd kick the aft of anyone who suggested he needed to be saved. Sure, he had joined the Decepticons technically as a noncombatant, but anybody who believed somebody covered in weaponry was playing display model only? They needed their processors defragged, pronto. Swindle was the best in the business, and his business was armaments and everything associated with them. He knew his goods inside and out, and his goods mostly consisted of stuff governments banned while buying by the crateload under the table.

What he couldn't bargain his way out of, he could blow the top off of. He might be an Autobot-sized grounder among heavy-duty frames, but he was no push-over. He could shoot the knees out of anybody taller than him. Anybody bulkier, he knew someone with a friend who could call in a favor on a buddy and get an airstrike if the frag grenades he kept on hand didn't do the job. Mechs either respected his ability to use his wares, or they experienced his job skills first hand. Even if he didn't take them out, his vast network of business acquaintances was perfectly willing to take out bothersome mechs who thought the merchant's size made him vulnerable.

On Earth, those who crossed him found themselves out of ammo or even small luxuries at the worst time, and frag if he'd sell them any more. There was nothing quite like going up against Optimus Prime with only half a clip left, or discovering that the Constructicons were out of black paint, leaving only that horrid chartreuse color that made anyone who wore it a laughingstock.

To be honest, Swindle had been so involved in reconstructing his business network and defending himself against Autobot and Decepticon alike that he'd forgotten that anybody looked at him as a commodity. He was Earth's most wanted illegal arms' merchant, or the smallest Combaticon. He was a lot of things on and off-duty, a charming smile and practiced business spiel schmoozing with Cybertronians and humans alike, and it simply didn't occur to him to consider other business angles. All in all, he was just really busy with more serious deals.

Waking up after the Detention Centre hadn't been easy on any of the Combaticons. Rebelling against Megatron and getting punched down not once but _twice_ did them in for good. The loyalty programming just cinched the whole mess like a noose around their necks. They couldn't escape the Decepticons, and they were on the bottom of the Earth hierarchy now until they proved themselves worth of being permitted to move up. Official duty took up most of their time, because they had to haul their own weight plus prove that they were twice as tough as anyone who said otherwise.

It wasn't so bad for Brawl. Brawl just had to show up and punch things, and he was good. The others? Not so simple.

Onslaught persistently tagged after both Starscream and Soundwave, playing 'junior' tactician just to claw his way into officer meetings. Humiliated by their condescending attitudes, he came back to the Combaticon base and spent more time than not on the firing range destroying suspiciously familiar-shaped targets. Then he reported for duty again, keeping his head down around Megaton and raising his hand like a kid in class to request permission to interject an observation or opinion in tactical meetings.

Blast Off had the worst orbital shifts as the most inexperienced of the Earth space-capable crew. He came down from his flights pitted from debris, cold from poor maintenance on his exterior shielding, and utterly exhausted. He recharged like the dead and traded planetside shifts to maximize his rest time, even at the expense of trading monitor duty for foundation reinforcement duty on the outside of the underwater base. There was very little in life more pitiful Blast Off's dull visor when the tired shuttle slumped into his berth still reeking of sea water.

Vortex was the Constructicons' scut-monkey and occasionally Soundwave's errand 'bot, and he sullenly submitted to their superior medical and interrogation expertise in the hopes of being allowed to demonstrate his own work experience. He returned to the Combaticon base and sat in his quarters staring at the wall. The look in his visor burned, he hated himself so much.

None of them were allowed the control to show their abilities, or the full extent of their skills. Megatron was no fool. The dangerous trio of tactician, sniper, and interrogator had nearly taken Kaon right out from underneath Shockwave. Megatron put them at the bottom here on Earth, and that's exactly where he would keep them crushed until he forgave them. So approximately never.

Swindle, on the other hand, showed up for his first shift under Ratbat, reorganized the financial records, shuffled some credits around, bought shares, made a few contacts with three phone calls and a delivery of flowers to the right address, and ended up promoted to Finances & Procurement Officer. Under Ratbat's close supervision, of course, but yeah. Just like that. One shift, and he was right back where he'd left off when Onslaught originally sucked him into the Kaon scheme.

The nice thing about openly being a money-grubbing mercenary was the freedom to sell himself to the highest bidder. A merchant went where the credits were, and Megatron had the credits. Therefore, he belonged to Megatron. The loyalty programming eased Megatron's mind over the matter, but loyalty didn't matter. Swindle belonged to the mech with the money.

It wasn't always an easy role, but Swindle played it well. He could do what nobody else in the Decepticons could: he could get along with _everybody_. He was, by nature, a people-person. He liked to listen, he liked to be 'in' on things, and he absolutely loved attention. Swindle had the wide purple optics and a nice, friendly smile.

Wait, rewind, because that was the part he took for granted these days. The optics and the smile, not to mention somebody had put that groundframe together with more than a nod to what was easy on the optics. He took them for granted so much because he'd forgotten anyone could see the conmech personae at face value, emphasis on the face. Everybody who approached him wanted product, not the person selling it.

So when Thundercracker stopped by the unofficial Combaticon table six months after their reprogramming and return to Earth, well, he didn't think much of it. "Sure, I've got a minute for my favorite blue Seeker," Swindle said, already smiling. Those pretty, pretty purple optics sparkled, and he winked as he stood up. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemechs. A customer calls."

Onslaught glanced at the flyer, but Thundercracker ignored the rest of the table. As per usual. When someone wanted to talk to Onslaught, Blast Off, or Vortex, the summons came the same way a mech would call a cyberhound: _'Here! Sit. Stay. Do a trick.'_ And the three Combaticons, thoroughly tamed, did their tricks on command. Brawl never noticed or cared how he was called, because he was used to being one of the faceless soldiers, but they fumed silently every time they had to play flunky.

When someone wanted Swindle, however, they walked over and politely asked for some of his time. Because Swindle inevitably had something that mech wanted.

Although the cant of Thundercracker's wings suggested a different deal than a mere weapon's upgrade. Onslaught was starting to get a handle on gauging Swindle's business deals by body language. He studied the two chatting mechs out of the corner of his visor. They stood just out of audio range, but Thundercracker's stance shifted slightly as he watched. The Seeker's hips angled, bringing wide blue wings closer to Swindle's shoulders in a far more intimate gesture than normal business called for. What kind of deal was this? Swindle's head tipped back, his optics widening before he looked down and away, a low riff of laughter breaking his composure.

More telling, the smooth-talking merchant didn't glide outside of the gesture, letting it swish by. One foot moved forward, in fact, until the smaller Decepticon eased into Thundercracker's personal space in conjunction with the Seeker's weight shift. Wicked optics peered up before those wings cut off Onslaught's line of sight.

"What's he up to?" Vortex muttered quietly, and Onslaught realized he wasn't alone in pretending not to watch the deal going down.

Now that he thought to look around the room, there seemed to be an inordinate amount of Decepticons paying close attention. Especially when Swindle sauntered back to the table, picked up his abandoned ration cube, smirked at the other Combaticons, and followed Thundercracker back across the room to the table unofficially claimed by the jets. Skywarp saw them coming and threw up his hands, but he grinned at Thundercracker instead of protesting as Swindle set his cube on the table. Thundercracker sat down, saying something to his wingmate. Swindle looked around the room, an oddly thoughtful expression on his face. After a brief hesitation, he nodded to the mechs staring intently at him.

And then he -

- he -

_He sat on Thundercracker's knee_.

Onslaught's hand tightened on his own ration, but Blast Off's intakes spluttered. "What the frag?" Vortex said deadpan. "Did I miss a memo? When did this become a thing?"

"It **isn't** a thing," Onslaught hissed, pinging the gestalt link that 'felt' like Swindle as hard as he could. On the periphery of his mind, he could feel Blast Off and Vortex doing the same. The link stayed sealed. Swindle's side of the gestalt link remained closed unless forced open by combining into Bruticus, and even then, none of them retained enough of their minds to go digging. Since most of them avoided exploring the bond out of sheer revulsion for what the spark-deep gestalt bond had forced on them, that had been fine.

Now? Now they regretted that. Swindle remained unaffected by their efforts. A vague sense of confusion filtered in from Brawl's link, which was perpetually left open because secrets were vulnerabilities he didn't have. He didn't give a scrap about mental connections or spark bonds. The three frustrated Combaticons blasted him with anger and alarm, and the tank fell off of whatever he'd been sitting on. Since he was currently on-duty, probably a chair.

_*"What's your problem?!"*_ he yelled into the unit frequency. _*"Reflector's laughing at me, ya afts!"*_

"Swindle's sitting in Thundercracker's lap," Onslaught said tersely into his pick-up.

_*"So?"*_ All three Combaticons blinked, taken aback. Their surprise filtered into the bond, and the tank's exasperation slapped them upside the gestalt links like he was right there at the table. _*"He look like he's unhappy?"*_

Trying not to look like they were spying, they checked.

Huh. Furtive looks turned to blank stares.

"No?" Vortex ventured.

_*"Then knock it off. Idiots."*_ It wasn't often Brawl, of all mechs, got to say that to anyone. His side of the gestalt link radiated self-satisfaction before he walled it off.

Blast Off, Onslaught, and Vortex didn't notice. They were too busy noticing other things.

Swindle was definitely not unhappy. He had half-curled into Thundercracker's lap, legs tucked up onto the large Decepticon's other leg. His arms were splayed out on the table. His helm rested on one forearm, facing away from the Combaticons' table. He looked like he was half in recharge. One of Thundercracker's hands slowly moved over him, giving long strokes down his back and stopping to toy with his shoulder-wheels every few strokes. Fingers lingered on Swindle's helm, tracing along the upper edges and down the back before sweeping down and rising to start again.

Instead of being the center of attention for the table, some sort of prize or conversation piece, the other jets at the table were talking over the Jeep's head like he didn't exist. The cube in front of him had noticeably gained a finger-width more fuel, strangely. Even as the other three Combaticons stared, Thrust reached over and tipped another glug in. Thundercracker picked it up in one hand and held it beside Swindle's helm, jiggling it enticingly as he dipped his chin and murmured something. Swindle stirred and curled his legs a bit more as if searching for a comfortable position.

Thundercracker let him shift around and showed him the cube again once he settled. One hand batted at it. A rare smile creased the somber blue Seeker's face, and he put the cube down to go back to petting the smaller mech, saying something with a wry grin to the rest of the table.

The jets all laughed, and Skywarp donated a splash of his drink to the cube this time. Thundercracker nodded thanks to his wingmate and picked up the cube to once again tempt the Jeep. His other hand slid up to knead softly at the base of the neck exposed to him from how Swindle partially lay on the table. Shoulders shrugged at the touch, but Thundercracker persisted, jiggling the cube and talking quietly. The rest of the table kept their own conversation going as if none of the group cared in the slightest that Thundercracker had a fully functional mech in his lap, apparently trying to feed him like some kind of reluctant, finicky technimal.

Eventually, Swindle sat up and stretched, back arching down and wrists flexing on the table. He lifted his helm, and the Seeker's other hand moved from his neck to cradle his chin in careful fingers. Optics lidded and dim, chin held up on Thundercracker's fingertips, Swindle docilely parted his lips as the cube settled against his bottom lip. As exact as if he was measuring out enriched nucleon and Starscream were glaring at the back of his helm, the jet tipped the cube until a bare mouthful of energon poured out.

Swindle accepted it, and the cube lifted away while the fingers under his chin gently massaged his main intake tube, encouraging him to swallow. When he did, the hand on his throat went back to petting his back in long, relaxing strokes, and Swindle set his helm back down on his arm. Thundercracker set the cube down and went back to talking with the rest of the table like nothing had happened.

No, not quite. His optics dulled to a calm red, and his wings slanted out in a posture not usually seen from flyers trapped in an underwater base. It was…abnormal.

"What is he **doing**?" Blast Off whispered. Someone could have walked up out of nowhere and hit the Combaticons over the heads, and they would have been less shocked.

While they weren't the _only_ ones gawping, most of the room didn't seem to care. That was what had Onslaught stunned. "It…must be something Thundercracker made a deal with him for."

The 'why' of it escaped him. He could see the 'what,' although he didn't understand what he was seeing. The jets around the table casually gave parts of their rations to Thundercracker to be fed in sips and swallows to the smallest Combaticon for no apparent reason. Swindle refused the cube more than once, turning up his nose or pushing it away with little batting motions. The blue Seeker rubbed his tires, thumbs circling his hubcaps over and over again, until the Jeep changed his mind and let himself be hand-fed.

"Didn't know he was that perverted," Vortex said, but the insult came out more like the 'copter were honestly surprised.

"Swindle or Thundercracker?" the shuttle next to him asked, almost in the same tone.

"Either. Both." He shook his head. "That's just - rust my rotors, if I'd known he'd auction himself off like this, I'd have bought him myself."

But it turned out to be not that simple. "Not interested," Swindle said bluntly to Vortex when the 'copter made an offer more sleeze than subtle. "I don't interface with clientele."

Blast Off and Onslaught scoffed from where they eavesdropped. The way Thundercracker had put his hands all over Swindle in the common room belied that claim. Not that Swindle had left the room with the jet or even done anything but sit there and let himself be fondled like some sort of lapdog, but come on. They could fill in the blanks easily enough.

The merchant eyed them narrowly. "Think what you want. You're not anyone I'd consider putting on the short list even if you had the cash to back up your offers."

That was an insult that couldn't be passed up. Onslaught strode forward and pinned the smaller Decepticon to the wall. "You want to say that again?" he rumbled, low and dangerous. He drew on every bit of control he had as gestalt leader and smacked Swindle's gestalt link with it.

This time, Swindle flinched. He'd felt _that_. "I'm off-duty," he gritted out anyway. "What I do on my own time is up to me, not you. If I want to sell that time, what of it? It's not **yours**, and you can't **claim** it just because you've got that Pit-slag bond to my spark!"

The arm across his chest bore down harder. "You are **mine**," Onslaught snarled. "We are a military unit. As far as military law's concerned, I command you, therefore I **own** you. I'll take whatever I want from you."

The other three Combaticons looked at each other uneasily, but Brawl shrugged, Vortex laughed, and Blast Off shook his head. They were already Megatron's whipping mechs. Finding out they were under Onslaught's heel as well wasn't life-changing news for any of them.

Not so for Swindle. The merchant was the king of compromise. He surrendered and made deals and found ways to bargain around insurmountable odds.

He bucked off the wall and kicked Onslaught full in the face. "You can **try**."

The Combaticon commander turned his head slowly back toward the pinned mech. His other hand rose to wipe a trickle of fuel from under his mask where a broken line flopped free from the dented plating. Swindle had gotten him a good one, but he hadn't let the Jeep go.

His visor seared into the kicking, squirming mech. "Yes, I can."

So he did.

He tried, and Swindle fought him. On-duty time was sacrosanct, dedicated to the leader their reprogrammed cores had to obey. Off-duty, Swindle schemed and ran, sabotaged and did everything possible to get away. Onslaught systematically smashed anything in his path and found the little conmech wherever he hid. That's when the real struggle began.

Brawl started spending more time at the underwater base, away from the rest of the team. He didn't object to his superior officers' glitches and whims, but that didn't mean he had to participate - or like it. Staying away was the tank's strongest objection. Vortex took the opposite route and lent a hand here and there where Onslaught needed it. But he was on double-duty because of whom he reported to. The 'copter wasn't often around to help.

Blast Off walked away from the ongoing fight, stating that, "This isn't my problem. You deal with him however you want."

Meanwhile, interest in Swindle's off-duty time grew even as the conmech buckled under Onslaught's crushing grip on the gestalt bond. The offers started coming in. Good offers, the kind that used to make the small grounder smile. These were the kind of offers he used to enjoy taking between armament deals. Those that remembered him from Cybertron spread the word, and the small demonstration with Thundercracker hadn't hurt. It seemed that the Earth-bound Decepticons had missed having someone like him around.

"That good of a frag?" Onslaught sneered when he intercepted a transmission. He couldn't break Swindle's transaction code, but he knew what the offer was for. Swindle wouldn't have tried to hide it if it were official Decepticon business.

The mech bent over on the floor, axle ground under the larger Combaticon's foot, refused to respond. He'd given up protesting that he didn't sell his body that way. Onslaught couldn't see any other reason someone would pay for his company.

"Maybe I should try you out myself."

That got a reaction. Swindle turned his helm until a purple optic glared upward, dark and furious. "Don't even say that."

Onslaught snorted.

Whether or not it was a scare tactic, the threat had been made. There wasn't anyone on the base to hear what happened, if anything ever did. Onslaught could follow through, and nobody would stop him. Swindle never opened his side of the gestalt link, not even under the worst Onslaught put him through. Who would help him? The others certainly wouldn't.

This wasn't a fairy tale. Nobody would swoop in to save his princess aft. It was up to him to get out of this mess.

The thing about an openly mercenary merchant was that he had no loyalty. Sometimes, self-interest could be the most brutal competitor on the market, and he would sell himself to that bidder in a split second.

A week later, the spare parts incident happened.

Swindle sold them all. He walked away from the other Combaticons and felt not a twinge of regret.

Oh, Megatron made him get them back. They were gestalt; the spark bond would have forced him to reassemble them eventually. By making Megatron turn his attention on him, however, it became a faction issue. Swindle bought and stole the other Combaticons, returning them to the Decepticons, and it wasn't because he'd made a mistake. What he'd done was very intentional: he'd taken it over Onslaught's head. Kneeling with Starscream's blaster at the back of his head, Swindle opened his side of the gestalt link to thrum grim satisfaction at the other four Combaticons.

Who could only stare in dumbfounded confusion from behind him. "Obviously, you fail to control your own combiner team," Megatron said to Onslaught, who winced. "Swindle's greed has made a fool of you, but Ratbat," the tyrant swept his hand toward Soundwave's Cassetticon, who preened smugly, "has shown himself more than able to keep such antics in check. As such, Swindle will be transferred to his command immediately. Any **questions**?"

The last was directed at Onslaught, since the gestalt leader's hand jerked up in protest. Onslaught looked up at his leader, swallowed hard, and let his pride die. He lowered his gaze and shook his head, staying silent. This was not the time to reveal how he'd been outmaneuvered. Megatron would have no sympathy for a commander who allowed a subordinate to manipulate him, which was precisely what had just happened. Swindle had gotten himself transferred from the Combaticon base, permanently out of Onslaught's reach and out from under his command unless he wanted to be a spectacle for the other Decepticons while trying to track down the Jeep in the underwater base.

Swindle meekly stood and went to stand behind Soundwave, at Ratbat's wing. He looked thoroughly cowed.

Only when no one was looking did pretty purple optics rise, and a smile cross his face. It was not nice.

He didn't need to be saved. Pity those who forgot that fact.

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**_[A/N:_**_ Yeah, this was me. I love the nonsexual side of BDSM, including things like pet play, and there isn't enough stuff written for it. Until the curtain rises next time, m'dears.__**]**_


	2. Pt 2

**Title: **Lease or Buy

**Warning: **Pet play

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

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** [* * * * *]**

**Part Two **

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Swindle didn't have favorite customers. Not exactly. Money was money in business, because he could be a professional when it came to an exchange of goods and services.

Although he wasn't _that_ professional. He was a merchant of flexible morals. More of a mercenary or conmech, really, but the professional front gave the sleezy undercarriage of unsavory war-time markets a slick top coat. Thus, Swindle didn't technically have favorites, because 'favorite' implied that he gave discounts, but his prices did change according to how he felt about the customer. He didn't charge less; it was more along the lines of those who annoyed him were charged proportionately more. The credits balanced against any negative feelings he might have.

That being said, he had to admit that he did have his preference for who bought his after-hours time. He kept his approach to the purchasing side strictly professional, but he was prone to personal feelings about clients. Certain offers were given more priority according to his mood. Tippers had a special place in his spark. Extra money always ensured good feelings and a sliver more interest on his part.

As much as he tended to enjoy playing pet, he limited how many appointments he offered. Hey, he knew supply and demand, even in this niche market. Too much supply would glut the market, and the price would plummet as demand turned to disinterest. His appeal came from the rarity of other small, cute mechs willing to play pet, after all. So no matter if he was in the mood to be pampered every night of the week, he set a schedule: only a certain number of appointments per customer within a period of time that adjusted by customer. For instance, he didn't take on any client but Astrotrain more than once a month. The triplechanger bought sessions in pairs, however, insisting on spacing the two sessions out a week apart. He was fanatic about following up on the initial session.

But Astrotrain was the only Decepticon who asked for pet _training_ sessions, which were far different than what were typically requested, and Swindle's adjusted the time limit accordingly. That meant that he never opened for sessions to the triple-changer more than once every three months, if that. Pet training tired him out, and the merchant had to be persuaded into sessions. Struggling in the shuttle train's lap, whining as the mech admonished him for disobeying commands? It had its appeal, but his aft could only take so much of the disciplinary spanking, no matter how hilarious he often found Astrotrain's scolding. Good behavior got him utterly spoiled in the follow-up appointments, the 'bad pet' routine stung his plating a little too much. He took Astrotrain's offers only when the numbers started dancing in interesting ways.

Although Astrotrain did tip. A lot, if Swindle held off for more than a few months at a time. Nine months gave him half a session extra in credits doled out during the follow-up, one perfectly obeyed order at a time. The shuttle-train had a backlog of ideas for training by then, and he'd all but leapt through the screen when Swindle's session opening went live. What were credits to a mech who got the silliest grin possible just from training a smaller grounder to sit back on his heels and follow the tip of his finger? Swindle had concentrated so hard those pretty purple optics almost crossed as he kept his nose pressed to Astrotrain's finger, never letting it break contact no matter how it moved.

Astrotrain practically threw the credits at him.

Anyway, tippers aside, Swindle didn't play favorites. If he didn't feel like playing toy mech, then he rejected every offer that came his way, and it didn't matter who was offering or how much was on the table. If he felt like it, he discreetly put out word that a cute little Autobot-sized pet was looking to be pampered. _Everyone_ on his non-business client list got the message. Whoever replied first got first consideration. Best offer won. He just happened to weigh a few things besides money in these particular deals.

He did have his regulars, and he had to pay attention to their needs. Close quarters on Earth required playing to his clients even more than usual. The mechs who came to him regularly needed to be acknowledged.

Astrotrain, of course. Blitzwing, during the football season in North America. The big, dumb triplechanger sent him exorbitant offers when the NFL started showing up on TV, and Primus spare Swindle the nagging if he didn't agree to spend the Superbowl in Blitzwing's lap. He didn't mind how the absent-minded petting to his back and head sped up during an exciting play, but getting dumped onto the floor every time the cogsucker jumped up to cheer got old real fast.

Then there was Mixmaster, who pinged him for a session any time a shipment of energon came in from a new location. Mixmaster starved for praise on most of his experiments. Feeding someone a sip of different types, brews, and mixtures of energon delighted the chemist. A toy mech was a captive audience, open and honest in taste-testing as only lower intelligences could be. Swindle didn't much like being blindfolded, but Mixmaster did so love to watch him react. Giving a begging pout at the end of a session was well worth it; Mixmaster would inevitably feed him whatever he'd shown the strongest preference for. Swindle would paw the Constructicon's leg and whine for that, despite having to lap from a bowl on the floor. It made the customer happy as well, since watching Swindle crouched over a bowl, optics dimmed and engine purring in nearly primal pleasure just from feeding, sent Mixmaster walking off on the clouds.

Reflector sometimes scheduled him, but that was more of a commercial session than pure pet play. Swindle wasn't sure if it was a fetish or a future import catalogue in the making, but the camera components liked to dress him up like a doll. The sheer amount of effort put into resizing human accessories to him left the conmech shaking his head in disbelief. Bemusement as well, since he didn't really see the appeal in the items Reflector picked for him. They were so…random. Entire outfits, or just accessories like fuzzy handcuffs in leopard print, a G-String in purple to 'match his optics,' and even sunglasses. He honestly didn't mind being dressed up - it was hard not to feel absolutely treasured while three sets of hands reverently rolling the stockings up his thighs and three sets of vents closed in the breathless anticipation when they clipped the garters on one by one - but every picture was documented and under contract. He'd find out what was going on eventually, if Reflector ever decided to use them for a catalogue or whatever down the road.

Soundwave? Well, that was an irregular regularity he still couldn't say he knew what he thought about. The sessions happened. Swindle just didn't plan on them, so the offers surprised him when they arrived. They were always generous. He usually spent about ten minutes eyeing them like they'd explode.

Thundercracker was so completely opposite of Soundwave that Swindle couldn't compare the offers. The sessions weren't _that_ different, but Thundercracker had been one of his occasional clients before the Detention Centre. Some things had changed in the course of the war. Thundercracker's need to relax via caring for someone hadn't. The underlying tension Swindle carried into every session with Soundwave was notably absent when he showed up for sessions with Thundercracker. They were almost as relaxing for him as they were for the Seeker himself. The flyer wasn't a _favorite_, but Swindle did enjoy their sessions together.

Thundercracker was also the only one of Swindle's customers bright enough to ask to buy in bulk. Not that Swindle took special clients, and it wasn't like the Seeker got a _discount_ or anything, but Swindle did bend the rules a bit for him. Just a little. Thundercracker was the only Decepticon Swindle allowed to schedule his next appointment during the current session.

Thundercracker liked stability. He liked the sense of control having a schedule gave him. Swindle knew that, and he did try to cater to his clients. Happy customers were repeat customers. One appointment in the future didn't stress the merchant out, no matter his mood that week.

It didn't always work out for the Seeker, however. The problem with pre-scheduled appointments was that they couldn't be rescheduled if something else came up. So if Starscream landed in the repairbay under Hook's cursing care due to an angry visitation of Megatron's fists, that left Thundercracker as the interim Air Commander.

Filework waited for no pet. Then again, the pet didn't wait for filework. Thundercracker either split his attention between pet and work, or forfeited the session entirely. Sessions were paid up front at the start of each session, but Swindle demanded down payment on the pre-scheduled appointments. A forfeited or rescheduled session would leave Thundercracker out part of the fee one way or another.

Compromise it was.

Swindle the pet mech was not amused by this turn of events. He stared at the Seeker reproachfully from the berth. This? This was the compromise? No. Bad temporary owner.

Thundercracker had his helm turned away toward the console screen, but Swindle knew the staring could be felt. Truth be told, he didn't mind that Thundercracker was essentially paying him to nap while the Seeker worked, but Swindle had a role to play. It was kind of fun, in a naughty way. Decepticons didn't get to do 'naughty,' but Swindle sometimes relished how he freely stepped in and out of roles regular mechs couldn't. During a session, he became a toy for his master's pleasure.

But tonight his master was busy. Thundercracker normally lavished attention on him, feeding him by hand and stroking him until he dozed. Now that attention was being given to a report instead of to Swindle the pet mech. Pet mech resented this change of affairs. Pet mech wanted to be pampered, not ignored. Pet mech wasn't the center of attention, and he wasn't happy with that at all.

Pet mech...felt mischievous.

And residual guilt for wasting the Jeep's time must have been poking Thundercracker, because the Seeker had yet to object to him rustling about on the berth. Object seriously, that was. If Thundercracker really wanted him to stop glaring and gronking his starter, he could. He could stop Swindle at any point by changing the rules of their set game. Swindle would have no problem going into recharge until the reports were finished and Thundercracker wanted him awake again. The lack of objections, however, told him that this had become a different part of the same game.

Swindle romped about on the berth, tussling with thin air and digging into the berth cover with little scrabbling motions of his hands, trying without trying to actually make a hole. He bumped the wall, rolled over, and did it again. Above him on the top bunk, Skywarp shifted. Swindle gronked his starter again, turning the key again and again, and revved his engine a few times. He kicked the wall this time, and Skywarp muttered a protest.

"Shhh," Thundercracker said without turning.

Swindle rustled more determinedly, squeaking his tires over the berth cover and picking at the manual charge control panel. _Pick pick pick_.

"Stop that."

Was that a real objection? No, that'd been in the coaxing, soothing tones of a master with an exasperating toy who wouldn't sit still. Swindle spun his tires and revved his engine. Bored, he did it again. Louder. Longer.

Skywarp muttered again. Thundercracker turned and shot a frustrated look at the pet rolling around kicking his feet perilously close to the underside of the other Seeker's bunk. "Swindle!" he hissed in a low voice. "Be still."

The Jeep curled up in a ball and sulked. From behind a knee, large purple optics demanded attention. Where was his deserved share of attention? Thundercracker _neglected_ him. Soon, he would die of boredom. Woe unto him.

He was thoroughly enjoying this role.

"Don't look at me that way," the blue Seeker sighed. Even with his back turned, the pretty optics could be felt. Swindle frowned, sticking out his lower lip a little. Impossibly, the expression caused Thundercracker's wings to tense. "Stop. I just have one more report to do."

Swindle grumbled and started picking at the controls again.

With another sigh, Thundercracker stood up and walked across the room to bend down and stroke a hand over the small grounder's helm. Swindle met the hand coming down, nudging into the palm and narrowing his optics in unfeigned pleasure. It was purely for manipulating the Seeker into doing his bidding, but he knew what it looked like. Thundercracker smiled helplessly and pet him again, running his hand down to rub one shoulder tire. Swindle sprawled on the berth and let his engine rumble under the attention.

One last pat to his helm. "Now be quiet," Thundercracker said softly before straightening up and going back to the desk.

Oh, that wouldn't do. Now Swindle felt challenged.

He rustled. He picked. He scrabbled about digging at the berth cover. He revved his engine and kicked the wall. Skywarp's protests started to sound more coherent the closer he came to being woken up by the Jeep's antics. One hand fell off the edge of the top bunk, halfway making it to an accusatory finger pointing at the smaller Decepticon. Skywarp tolerated Thundercracker's eccentric purchases; he didn't share his wingmate's hobbies, especially when they interrupted his recharge time.

Swindle eyed that hand, considering his options.

"Don't you dare," Thundercracker whispered.

Swindle leaned forward, smiling that nice little smile he pulled out on suckers. Why, he wouldn't do _anything_.

Thundercracker was up and across the room before he could nip Skywarp's fingers. "No!" The blue Seeker lowered his voice hurriedly. "Stop that. Bad!"

The Jeep beeped his horn and glared, pushed flat on the berth. Thundercracker had never pinned him down like this. It didn't hurt, but it surprised him. They hadn't discussed 'bad pet' behavior prior to this, and he didn't know what to expect. It didn't look like Thundercracker wanted to stop playing, but he wasn't sure what the Seeker wanted him to do next. He didn't want to break the pet role, but he needed instructions.

Big hands pulled him off the berth and set him on the floor, firmly guiding him down to his knees. "Shoo. Go cause trouble somewhere else." One hand lingered on top of Swindle's helm, and then Thundercracker returned to the desk to quickly resume typing.

Swindle cocked his head to the side and considered his temporary owner for a moment. Tonight, it seemed his role was that of a needy pet whose master had to keep interrupting work in order to fuss over him. Thundercracker had, after all, just given him permission to continue making life difficult.

Hiding a grin, Swindle went looking for trouble.

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** [* * * * *]**


	3. Pt 3

**Title: **Lease or Buy

**Warning: **Pet play

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

* * *

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Three **

**[* * * * *]**

* * *

Bargaining from flat on his back was not his strongest position. Never let it be said that Swindle passed up an opportunity, however.

Alright, so it was more like the opportunity wouldn't leave him alone. "Not interested," he stated yet again. Once more, he turned his head the other direction on the repair slab to reinforce just how not interested he was. "I'm injured. I want to be repaired. That's the only relationship I want between us." A molecule of tact wormed through the pain assaulting his busted front. "No offense."

Regrettably for his attempt to close the conversation, Scavenger just scampered around to the other side of the slab. Again. There was no avoiding the mech. "Come on! You, turning down a **business** relationship?" That came out sounding like something luscious but obscene. Swindle twitched. Frag him and his weak spot. Scavenger leaned down to put his elbows by his face and gave the downed Combaticon an innocent look. "I don't buy it. You have a price, and if you'd just tell me what it is…"

Yeah, straight for the weak spot.

This? This was why Swindle usually found Scavenger to be the most fun among the Constructicons. Scavenger might have the self-esteem of a teenage girl, but he was a hoarder and collector. The mech knew how to negotiate in order to get what he wanted. Swindle sometimes went out of his way to acquire items he knew would get him a few days of offers and counter-offers, flamboyant bartering techniques and cut-throat veiled threats. Stretching his bargaining skills against another experienced trader made for good exercise here on Earth.

Today was not the day to be a merchant. Today was the day Grimlock punched Swindle's grill up under his windshield. Reinforced gestalt framework or not, Jeeps were not meant to indent that way. Business ranked second to repairs, today.

But Scavenger had been sent in to negotiate while he was down, and that was playing dirty. "I am in pain," the smaller Decepticon bit out, his normal smile flattened at the edges into a strained grimace. "I do not want to be in pain. What you're asking for is going to mean I stay in pain longer, and frag that. No deal!"

"No no no," Scavenger rushed to assure him, hurrying around the slab when Swindle stubbornly turned away. Primus, was there no way to escape the mech? "No, you won't be in any pain! You misunderstand me, Swindle." A hand hovered, hesitating mid-air because Swindle's genial, welcoming body language had closed off into a hostile tension. The Constructicon settled for patting the repair slab instead. "We want to take **care** of you. Treat you! No pain, I promise. They just - uh, we just," the smaller mech tensed further, catching that slip, "want to have a patient who's not quite so…" Scavenger waved a hand, trying to pull a description out of nowhere. "Decepticon."

Sentient, he meant. Swindle knew _exactly_ what the Constructicons - he had his suspicions about just which ones had sent in their negotiator - wanted from him. They wanted an injured pet to whimper and cry under their hands in dumb fear and pain, who had to be restrained and soothed instead of knocked upside the helm. They didn't want to have to explain every single procedure or account for why they were doing what they did. They wanted him to be a patient and responsibility instead of an equal and job.

Swindle did not want to be a pet today. He really, truly didn't. His chest was smashed in, there were glass fragments in his coolant reservoir, and a pool of windshield wiper fluid was forming at the small of his back on the slab.

None of which negated the fact that the gearhead was right. Swindle did have a price. Plus, the idea of being taken care of had its merits. Not ones he typically thought of under these circumstances, but in conjunction with the right price, it was worth throwing out there for consideration.

He slowly lit those glittering purple optics he knew everyone found so exotic, and Scavenger stared down at him. "Triple Mixmaster's usual rate."

The Constructicon didn't even flinch. "Done."

"And."

Justifiably wary, Scavenger waited.

Swindle blinked his pretty optics, charming for all he was worth. "Nobody gets access to my medical records or updates on my condition. Ever. Megatron, sure, but nobody else unless they've got a direct order from him." The other Combaticons still pressured him when they thought they could get away with it. He had no intention of Onslaught knowing when he was weak and vulnerable.

Scavenger stared into the light over the berth, obviously communicating with his team. A few minutes later, he gave the small groundframe on the slab a thoughtful look. It was an odd proviso. Swindle knew what he was thinking. Could it be used to the Constructicons' advantage in future dealings?

It'd make life interesting later, he was sure.

"Agreed," Scavenger said at last.

"Fine." He shifted, legs creaking protest as he bent them. "Transfer the credits to my account through Mixmaster. And - how do you want to play this?" It felt weird to discuss a pet session while he was so thoroughly banged up, but okay. The deal was brokered. Time to deliver.

"You remember that time you slipped Astrotrain's leash and went running through the halls?" Swindle grinned despite himself at the reminder, and Scavenger ducked his head, seeming somewhat embarrassed.

Astrotrain had been _incensed_, but mostly at himself. It'd been a rookie pet owner mistake. Swindle had played the part of an untrained, uncomprehending pet to the hilt, and Astrotrain had fumed because trying to take a pet who wasn't leash-trained for a walk was stupid. He'd been forced to rein in his temper when Swindle had finally stopped zooming around the base like a moon-crazy Stunticon on highgrade. Every time Astrotrain had raised his voice, the Jeep had taken off driving again. When Astrotrain had cornered him at last, he'd sat on the common room table and given the triplechanger a confused look for the anger. What? He hadn't done anything wrong, had he?

"Not out of control, but not obeying commands all the time," Scavenger clarified. "Not so much running away and squealing your tires, but…it hurts, right?" Swindle gave him a flat look. "Just…go with that, I guess."

He sounded like he wasn't sure what was wanted. Great. Swindle would be playing with mechs who didn't know what rules they wanted the session to be played by. Oh, well. It wasn't the first time.

"No pain?" he stressed.

"No pain," the Constructicon agreed. "I'll, um, go get everyone."

Everyone? Fah. Swindle bet it'd be one Constructicon, two at most.

As soon as the door closed, he levered himself off the repair slab. Wincing, he staggered across the room. Time to get into character. As much as it hurt now, he felt reasonably confident that he'd be taken care of properly. Probably better than most care the Decepticons got from the Constructicons. Surly healthcare for the ranks was different than specialized pet care.

In return, he just had to play a part. He crawled under a set of cabinets and wedged himself into the corner, like a wounded animal trying to hide. Then he laid there and cycled air in shallow vents, waiting out the throb of pain from moving.

The door opened, and he lit his optics dimly to see two sets of feet enter. Ha. He'd been right.

"Where is he?"

Hook immediately turned and stomped back toward the door. "Scavenger! He's gone!"

"Fragger's going to try taking **our** credits and running? Not very bright, is he," Scrapper said coldly, and Swindle's mouth curved in a thin smirk.

He lit his optics a bit brighter and hissed.

The angry conversation halted.

He deliberately rattled his plating a bit and hissed again. The feet moved.

"Swindle?"

"Where are you?"

"Come out."

"It's alright, we're here."

"Swindle?"

Coaxing calls started as two sets of feet began pacing the repair bay. Swindle curled tighter. Scrapper and Hook would find him soon enough, but he'd make them work to get him out of his hidey-hole. Call _him_ not very bright, did they? Hmmph.

"There you are." Suddenly: Scrapper. The leader of the Constructicons looked somewhere between pleased and relieved to have located him.

Swindle glowered at him. He made a low warning noise at the mech now kneeling beside the cabinet, and then he curled further into his corner. Brighter than _that_, thank you very much.

"Come out of there." Scrapper's voice had the coaxing tone of someone used to dealing with recalcitrant patients with more damage than common sense. "Swindle, come on. We can't fix you if you're under a cabinet."

Swindle relaxed his curl a bit, letting one optic peek over his arm. A hand extended toward him, fingers curled and thumb chafing back and forth over the forefinger in an enticing gesture. He eyed it and uncurled a fraction more. The hand came closer.

Hook dropped down beside his teammate abruptly, visor squinting as he bent to follow Scrapper's gaze, and Swindle's damaged motor gave a warning howl. Scrapper hesitated, but Hook looked more evaluating than wary. "We're going to have to open up his engine block." He reached past Scrapper's arm to grab the closest bit of Swindle he could.

That comment about his intelligence just asked for retaliation, and he had Scavenger's instructions to make life difficult for the two Constructicons. The wounded Jeep twisted, jerking his captured foot up in order to deliver a nasty sharp _bite_ to Hook's wrist. He didn't hold back.

"Fragging **Pit** - !"

Hook released him, but only to shake him loose and grab another handhold. Yelping, Swindle found himself dragged out from under cover by the now pissed-off surgeon, and that rasped the bent side of his chest across the floor. Yelping turned into a yowl as his engine and vocalizer synced into one pained sound. He clawed the floor, fighting the pull.

"Careful!"

"He's got to come out," Hook snapped.

"You don't need to handle him that roughly!"

No, he didn't, and Swindle intended to teach these mechs how to treat a pet right. Any owner worth the credits he shelled out learned that play was about the pet, not the owner. Time for Hook to figure out that if the owner didn't behave right, the pet didn't have to cooperate in the slightest.

Swindle let go of the floor seam he'd been stubbornly clinging to, doubled over, and glomped onto Hook. The surgeon let go, hand recoiling to protect the sensitive fingers, but the Jeep didn't aim for that. A dumb pet wouldn't know how to target Hook's most vulnerable spot. A pet just lashed out at the one hurting him. Swindle latched onto Hook's forearm and savaged it.

Fingers tore and clawed, teeth bit, and he even got a few good kicks in. The pain of his chest gave him motivation, the money gave him cause, and the visceral satisfaction of Hook's utterly shocked yell made him feel good. Sometimes, mindlessly lashing out really did help. His neck ached from jerking at the solid grip he had with his teeth, but Scrapper and Hook were yelling at each other now, Scrapper physically stopping Hook from just punching him off. Swindle's fingers scraped peels of metal and paint away from the surgeon's arm in long clawmarks, his teeth punctured the armor entirely, and _Primus_ did his chest hurt!

He inflicted the pain he felt on Hook for less than thirty seconds, growling and snarling while Scrapper restrained the surgeon, but the second he saw an opening, the smaller Decepticon pushed off Hook and retreated back into his hidey-hole.

Stunned silence gained him a few extra seconds to tuck himself back into a protective ball. His chest throbbed. Swindle licked Hook's fluids off his teeth and gave a feral grin behind the shelter of his arm. Physical vengeance on someone who prided himself on looking down on others intellectually felt good.

Better yet was how Scrapper immediately took Hook to task. There was no doubt in the engineer's mind whose fault the injuries were, despite how Hook began sputtering. "That fragging - "

"I told you not to do that," Scrapper said back. "Let me see your arm."

"My arm's fine! Get that idiot out from under there before I hogtie him and hang him from the ceiling!" The tone was enough to get the Jeep's engine howling again, but Swindle added an angry growl over a pet's tone-based wariness. If the Constructicons tried that, he'd have a commlink open to Ratbat before the first knot was tied.

But Scrapper had a better head on his shoulders than Hook's pride currently allowed. "I told you. He's injured and in pain. The only way we're going to be able to treat him is if he trusts us, and now he's doubly afraid of what we're going to do to him."

"But - !"

"No." Scrapper's voice brooked no excuse. "**I told you.** Would you trust someone who hauled you around by your foot for no reason you understood?"

"But he **knows** that we have to - "

"No, he doesn't." The engineer's voice fell into a hushed whisper as he fell out of the session role of master and reminded Hook of what was going on. Swindle was playing a pet, and a pet didn't know anything that required more than basic functions and rudimentary thought processes. That meant they had to play their part in the roleplay, which meant they went along with the farce that Swindle was unintelligent. Hook had to shake the idea of Swindle the Combaticon if they wanted to play this game.

Swindle curled tighter and nodded to himself. Newbies. Scrapper sounded like he had some experience, but Hook definitely hadn't done this before. The conmech idly wondered if the surgeon could _play_. Being an owner needed a mindset, and Hook didn't seem the type to be able to slip in and out of character.

Scrapper, on the other hand, knew the game. "Swindle? Swindle, come here. Swindle, here." The stern tone he'd taken talking to Hook had become something soothing. He had the tone down pat. Part of Swindle knew how to listen to tone, and the conmech appreciated someone who wielded it well. Tone and body language filled a huge part of his sales repertoire. He peeked and saw Scrapper bent to look under the cabinet at him. "There's those pretty optics," the engineer said warmly. "There's a good 'bot. Come on, Swindle." The hand extended to flutter fingers enticingly at him again. "See, it doesn't matter what you say to him," Scrapper said, obviously not to the Jeep even as he kept his visor on him and his voice in that coaxing tone, "just that you sound nonthreatening. Isn't that right? Who's a cute little grounder, yes you are."

It was hard to keep a straight face through that, but Astrotrain piled the silly flattery on deeper during sessions. Swindle shifted and let his engine change gears. The clack of broken pistons was loud under the cabinet like this, and he whined pitifully.

Hook huffed as he knelt beside his teammate, but he grudgingly held out a hand, too. "You're the most irritating rebuild bilge pump on this hemisphere of the planet," he crooned in a rusty attempt at Scrapper's warm tone. "Come here so I can strangle you with your own exhaust pipe."

Big purple optics squinted suspiciously at the surgeon. Toy mechs weren't intelligent, but this one knew that this particular Constructicon had grabbed and caused pain once. Swindle carefully kept his lips from twitching into a smile at the litany of abuse being crooned at him, and he inched away from Hook's hand. Hmm, nope. Creative as Swindle the merchant found the diatribe, Swindle the pet didn't trust Hook.

Scrapper pushed Hook's hand down and away. "Let me get him out. He, ah, didn't like what you did before." He murmured something else as an aside to his teammate, and Hook stood to stomp away. Swindle watched his feet go. The surgeon never did like being proven incapable of a task. "There we go. Better?" The Jeep's optics turned back toward the engineer trying to coax him out. There were fingers being wiggled at him. "Come on, little one. Time to fix you. Here, Swindle."

He let the stream of soothing nonsense calm his engine down until only pained, malfunctioning clicks and strained hiccups could be heard. The cautious, tense curl unwound eventually, and Swindle ever-so-slowly nosed toward the hand still being held toward him. Scrapper patiently kept his palm open and the fingers straight, not a hint of quick, threatening movements there.

The tips of his fingers were investigated, cautious and ready to retreat. Scrapper didn't move. A nose touched his thumb. A tongue flicked against his index finger, investigating his taste. A tiny motion from the licked finger, probably of surprise at the damp swipe, and Swindle scurried back into a tight ball. He kept one optic on the engineer, however, and there was no mistaking that pleased glint in the mech's visor.

Yeah, Swindle had his number now. Scrapper liked to gain a scared, injured pet's trust. He liked to tame. Astrotrain liked to train; Thundercracker liked to care for; Scrapper liked gentling wild pets to hand.

He could play to that.

Good thing Scavenger had closed off the worst of his internal leaks before propositioning him. Swindle made Scrapper work to get him out from under the cabinet. The crooning tone encouraged him along, never expressing even a smidgeon of irritation for the amount of time it took before the Jeep dared uncurl again. Wary, Swindle progressed with glacial slowness from sniffing Scrapper's fingertips to nibbling the heel of his hand while the engineer slowly, gently, _carefully_ slid his fingers under the pet's chin. Purple optics squinched up in pleasure as Scrapper began rubbing at the sensitive tubes and cabling underneath, paying special attention to the sheathes where exposed cabling went up into his head. Barely scratching at the rims of those had Swindle sagging forward into the hand under his chin, fingers opening and closing in small kneading motions against the floor as his damaged motor tried to chug into a contented purr.

Part of that was feigned, but Scrapper would never be able to tell how much or how little. Swindle was very good at body language. It was why he excelled at playing the part of a pet.

The unfeigned pleasure he had was the other reason he was so good at this. Attention turned on him and him alone felt good. He soaked it up like a greedy sponge paid by the hour. He liked being the center of attention, and the fact that customer satisfaction soared while he got all the money and the attention just made this job one of the best uses of his off-time ever.

Scrapper coaxed him out from under the cabinet by gradually drawing his fingers away, making Swindle stretch and stretch trying to get the rubbing under his chin back. The Jeep shifted back and forth in his hidey-hole, nervous, but he really wanted those fingers back. They felt good. This Constructicon was _nice_. Swindle the pet liked him. Maybe it was okay to inch out of his safe place? Maybe. If he was careful.

Swindle oozed out of his corner a little, chin up hopefully. The fingers tickled under it before withdrawing again. The Jeep inched after them.

When he was close enough, Scrapper extended his other hand. The pet mech eyed it, investigated it, and hunched as it descended slowly toward his face. Jittery, he scrunched into the floor until he couldn't evade it any further. A second later, he made a throaty sound of pleasure when it swept over the upper rims of his optics. Scrapper stroked the intricate optical ridge mechanism with just the right pressure, and Swindle leaned into his hand this time.

All the while, the constant monologue soothed and coaxed, praised and called his name over and over until the tone did indeed become the important part. Half-hypnotized by the warm flow of words, Swindle cautiously emerged from his cabinet shelter and blinked in the light.

Before he could take a fright and shrink back into the shadow of the cabinet, Scrapper smoothed a hand over his helm. "Pretty pretty. Ready to get fixed? Hmm? Pretty Swindle, we'll get you repaired. It'll be just fine, you'll see. Come on, Swindle. You're okay."

Swindle dimmed his optics and churred his engine roughly, pushing into the petting with the slack-jawed pleasure of a toy mech well on his way to trusting the person talking and touching him so gently. He sneaked a look through dimmed optics and kept his amusement from his face. Scrapper's expression, mask or not, was the self-satisfied gloating look more commonly seen on Hook. His visor held a weird tenderness directed toward Swindle himself, but yeah. Yeah, Scrapper was enjoying himself to no end right now.

Hook, on the other hand, was the picture of impatience: arms folded, foot tapping, and frown in place. "Just get him on the table, already."

The look his team leader shot him made Swindle curious about the internal dynamics of the Constructicons. "Don't rush him. He's doing just fine," Scrapper said in a low croon, but Hook flinched and became interested in rearranging tools on the repair slab shelf, suddenly. "Pretty pet. Such a pretty Swindle. Let me see those optics…" A deft hand stroked his optic ridges again, distracting the conmech from the nervous pet act he'd been playing up to while watching Hook. Swindle dimmed his optics and pushed into the touch, deciding Scrapper had worked hard enough. "Good, good. Follow me, now?"

Swindle leaned, trusting, into the hand guiding him, but he kept a wary optic on Hook. He had the sneaking suspicion that Scrapper enjoyed earning trust - but Hook was a sadist. It wouldn't surprise him at all if Hook enjoyed _testing_ that trust. If the surgeon's hands started 'slipping' and having minor 'accidents' that would cause pain to confuse and bewilder a trusting, dumb pet, well, then he'd know for sure. And he'd even let Hook cause the pain to make him whimper and seek reassurance from Scrapper. He would just keep a running tally of the pains to multiply his fee by if Scrapper requested another session.

He would, of course. Nobody looked at Swindle like that and let it go with just one session. So Swindle would never take Hook as a client again, and he'd consider Scrapper if the engineer paid the price he was sure Hook was about to send skyrocketing.

In the meantime, he'd take back some of his own by biting the scrap out of Hook once the pet mech's trust got pushed too far.

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**[* * * * *]**


	4. Pt 4

**Title: **Lease or Buy

**Warning: **Pet play

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

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**[ * * * * *** **]**

**Part Four **

**[ * * * * *** **]**

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Swindle had stopped reacting to the awkward silence in Blast Off's cargo hold a couple years back. If it didn't increase his profits, culture a relationship network, or lead to a good time in some way or another - why the frag should he even acknowledge it? He was stuck with Vortex, Onslaught, and Blast off sharing a gestalt bond with him, but that didn't mean he had to spend a single moment of his precious time on them. Time was money. He managed money for a living. He knew how to direct his attention appropriately.

Away from the wastes of time, of course. The merchant tended to use the transit time inside Blast Off to manage his accounts or do business research. Anything internal to keep himself pointedly out of the stilted conversations that did attempt to spring up. He could put on a sales smile and chime in if there were any other Decepticons in the hold, but he didn't bother pretending to be civil when it was just his team.

He didn't enjoy the company of the other Combaticons. They were marked down as a threat in his mind, but a contained one. They couldn't harm him overmuch without the gestalt bond and Ratbat responding negatively. The spark-linked pain, Swindle clamped down on. He wouldn't give the fraggers the satisfaction of feeling how they could hurt him, even if he screamed under Vortex's tools. The irate backlash from his immediate superior, however, he encouraged. Ratbat outranked them all, and Swindle would unashamedly hide behind that rank. Anything to keep Onslaught across the cargo hold from him, and Vortex under orders not to even touch him outside of a combiner merge.

Bruticus could handle himself. Swindle didn't worry about what the other Combaticons got out of him during their brief combines, either in battle or training. It was before and after battles when he had to be cautious. Onslaught kept attempting to corner him, and Vortex was out to 'persuade' him to return to the Combaticon base.

No. Not in a million years would he voluntarily walk back into that cesspit. His status in the optics of the other Decepticons - the ones who spent _money_ - dropped by association with the Combaticons, and a target popped up on his back anytime Onslaught, Vortex, or Blast Off was about. They'd tried stranding him on his own in the underwater base for a while, but that hadn't worked out the way he thought Onslaught had intended. They were in and out of the main base too often to strain the gestalt bond.

The physical need of the gestalt bond was easy enough to satisfy, oddly. He wouldn't go near Vortex, Onslaught, and Blast Off even for business, but Brawl's casual acceptance of Swindle had come out of left field. The tank filled in like the Combaticon bouncer: he had no attachment to the club, but he'd obey the orders management gave him and respect every employee right up until the point the rules got broken. Insert Megatron as management and the rest of his team as employees, and yep. Swindle did love mechs who played by business rules. It made it difficult to con the tank into working for him outside the club, as it were, but Brawl understood well enough why the spare parts incident had happened. No hard feelings there, and Swindle had adopted a scrupulously honest approach to the mech after that. As much as he ever did, at least.

In any case, Brawl took as many shifts in the underwater base as he could, frequently crashing in his quarters there instead of returning to the Combaticon base. That meant that Swindle and Brawl were perfectly capable of seeking each other out when the urge hit to strengthen the gestalt links physically. That kept Swindle away from the rest of the Combaticons, and it prevented the gestalt bond from becoming strained because the Jeep was a stubborn slagger who'd rather install an emotional circuitry baffler than turn to any of the others for help stabilizing.

They did get along outside of the whole gestalt thing. It probably helped that Swindle was small. Brawl liked feeling big and powerful, but he found it perversely funny that the conmech was definitely on top in terms of intellect and the military hierarchy. They'd idly talked about it before, leaning against each other in the common room or in Swindle's room in the underwater base. Being smaller than three-quarters of the Decepticons wasn't new to Swindle, but his total confidence in his control over the situation tickled Brawl's sense of humor. Their encounters left them both feeling better and amused as well.

Put in that context, perhaps it wasn't so surprising that Brawl had no trouble accepting that Swindle occasionally rented himself out as a pet. Brawl didn't exactly experience any of the pleasure of pet play himself, but he _got it_.

"Mechs like what they like," he said one time, legs up on Swindle's lap as he slouched on the berth. "I ain't too bright, but it's not a complicated thing. You know? Skywarp likes anything sporty with curves, and I can kinda see it. Fast, shiny, lots of glass and class you just don't get up in the air. Still not my thing, but why does it have to be? He doesn't hit on me. It ain't my business unless he gets in my way somehow, and why in the name of ammunition would he? He likes cars. I don't." He threw up his hands and shrugged. "Keeps him happy."

"Viola!" Swindle twirled the wrench, giving a showy toss before going back to using it on the tank treads set across his thighs. "One functional relationship, like magic."

Brawl levered himself up enough to look over his own chest at the Jeep. "What? I did magic?"

"In the optics of certain mechs, yes," he said sarcastically. "Keeping your cannon out of someone's business is apparently less of a basic courtesy than an acquired skill, I've found, and some mechs never get it through their thick helms that being acquainted - or even in the same unit - doesn't mean ownership."

The tank squinted for a moment. "…think you might mean Onslaught."

"Think you might be reading my mind."

"Nah, it's kind of obvious."

"No, really?"

They fell into companionable silence after that, and when Swindle finished tightening the loose bolt on the inside of his road wheel, Brawl wandered out of the room as casually as he'd wandered in. Simple as that. They were around each other, and sometimes Swindle hired him for a bruiser, and sometimes Brawl punched Swindle because Ratbat caught the Jeep cooking the books, but mostly it was the uncomplicated coworker vibe that was better than anything else. It was so easy to _understand_ each other when neither demanded anything. They showed up, did their jobs, and went their separate ways.

The day Brawl crossed Blast Off's cargo hold to sit next to Swindle on the floor didn't follow that pattern. It also broke the awkward silence the Jeep hadn't acknowledged. Not ignored - he didn't bother acknowledging it. Blast Off, Onslaught, and Vortex held nothing of interest for him anymore, and he had more important things to devote his time to.

Swindle snapped out of his internal business to give the tank his attention, however, because it was Brawl and Brawl didn't interrupt him for nothing. "How can I help you today?" The notorious sales smile flashed, and jovial optics turned up to him. "Need something special to take the sting out of losing to Warpath, huh?" He could secure a few extra cubes of high grade for a good buddy. For a price, of course, but at a nice discount.

The reminder got him a sour glare. "Didn't **lose**. Just didn't win." Swindle's practiced smile took on a smirk-like quality. And just how, precisely, did not-winning differ from losing? "Stalemate."

"That Blitzwing had to tow you out of."

"It happens." Brawl shook his head and refused to continue the topic. "Not why I came over. Onslaught asked me to do him a solid."

Favors from teammates. The merchant heaved a sigh and glanced in the direction of Onslaught and Vortex, who weren't looking at him. That didn't matter. He could still feel them leaning slightly on his closed gestalt link.

Save Swindle from the attempts at guilt trips, because he didn't fly on those airlines. "Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

"Yeah, I know." Broad shoulders shrugged. "But he asked me to ask anyway."

The phrasing pinged him, because both of them knew Onslaught didn't do asking when it came to subordinates. He did orders or demands. "Asked?" Swindle asked carefully.

"Asked." They exchanged a look at the weirdness. "So can I ask you?"

Well, he was definitely curious, now. He made a go-ahead gesture. "Might as well."

"Can Blast Off hire you?" Brawl put his hands up when the smaller Decepticon gave him an incredulous, nearly furious glare. "Hey, it's what he wanted me to ask!"

"I don't even want to know what he's proposing to hire me for," Swindle said, loud, clear, and completely flat. The pretty purple optics his clients so liked were hard when Onslaught turned to meet them. "There aren't enough credits on Earth or Cybertron to buy a minute of my time, much less anything else."

Onslaught looked at him for a moment, then turned an emotionless visor on Brawl. The tank made a sound like a deflating balloon and shook his head. Onslaught kept looking. Brawl wiped a hand down his mask and turned it up like he was asking Primus for patience. There was more looking. An almost physical pressure of staring visors, when Vortex turned to add his visor to the look. Brawl met their gazes and huffed air.

Swindle deliberately went back to balancing his accounts.

Until Blast Off finally spoke up, reluctant to get involved but evidently feeling it was necessary considering Brawl's refusal to pester Swindle anymore on their behalf. "We realize you hold some - ill-will toward us for past mistakes," the shuttle said through the closest speaker. "Onslaught felt that you would feel least threatened by me, as I was the least active in…" The pause stretched out just a little too long as Blast Off sought a better way to phrase his knowledge of but lack of participation in the abuse and threats. "I was not as involved in past events," he finished at last, oddly delicate.

The Jeep in his hold kept his head down and worked steadily on more important things than an obvious trap. Conning the conmech didn't work on this conmech.

"We wish only to hire you for a conversation," Blast Off continued when Swindle didn't respond. "You had little difficulty working with us on a business level in the past. It would be beneficial to us as a team to return to that smoother partnership. Our value as a whole would improve in Megatron's estimation."

Swindle stayed silent. He'd said his piece already. There wasn't a price in the universe that'd buy his cooperation, and the only value the Combaticons had at all was in the formation of Bruticus. They didn't need to cooperate as individuals for the gestalt bond to work during a merge. Any possible gain in this exchange would be for Onslaught, then, and like the Pit would he help that scrapyard reject get Megatron's favor.

Swindle already had value in Megatron's optics, quantifiable and set aside in neatly added columns in various accounts throughout the galaxy.

"It is a conversation, Swindle," the shuttle said stiffly, "not a contract. It can be done in a place of your choosing, at your discretion."

The truly annoying part of the awkward attempt at reaching out to him, Swindle reflected, was that not one of them likely spared a single thought to outright apologizing to him. They were willing to admit that damage had been done and should be repaired, not that they were wrong to have inflicted it. It wouldn't make a difference, really, but at least then Onslaught would have to admit he'd pushed too far and done too much. Throwing money at him, believe it or not, didn't work every time.

Seriously, it didn't.

Forgiveness couldn't be purchased.

Revenge, on the other hand, was a cold, petty package available for sale any day of the week. "Can't," he said cheerfully, clapping his hands together and giving an obnoxiously bright smile as Blast Off shuddered through the descent toward the underwater base's launch tower. "My schedule is full up! Seems everyone wants to spend their time with me when I'm off-duty. Shame I can't fit you in, but I'll get back to you when there's an opening!"

Which would be never. In fact, Swindle was in the mood to open for public pet sessions right now, since Onslaught and Vortex would both be trapped in the underwater base for the next few days while the helicopter got his rotor array repaired and Onslaught went through the post-mission reports with Soundwave and Starscream. Swindle could make a _spectacle_ of himself, and he'd made a tidy _profit_ of letting the other Combaticons stew in their inability to stop him. Or intrude on his clients' playtime.

He was going to be pampered and adored, and he was going to rub it in the faces of the cogsuckers he had to share a gestalt bond with.

Blast Off swooped to land, hatch opening, and Brawl shifted beside the Jeep. Swindle turned to look down at him when he bounced to his feet. "Let me know if you need that special something," he told the tank, still smiling. Brawl blinked up at him before nodding. Onslaught and Vortex only watched as he cocked the wide smile toward them. "And you have a nice day, now!"

There was a vastly uncomfortable silence. He skipped out of the cargo hold without reacting. It was questionable if he even noticed it anymore, but he certainly didn't care.

* * *

**[ * * * * *** **]**


	5. Pt 5

**Title: **Lease or Buy

**Warning: **Pet play

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

* * *

**[ * * * * * ]**

**Part Five **

**[ * * * * * ]**

* * *

Not going to lie: this, he'd missed.

Decepticons were selfish creatures. They had to be. When their military hierarchy valued strength, and only the strong survived in the Decepticon ideal society, then the only way to gain and keep that strength was to hoard as much of the available resources as possible. Gifts leveled debts or created them. Sometimes they were meant to culture future favors through goodwill.

Actual generosity in the form of anonymous presents had gone out the airlock way back when the war started.

Oh, Swindle knew someone wanted something from him in return for the gift, but they hadn't put their name down. Whatever they wanted, they wanted to see his reaction more than they wanted to trade for a session. If they didn't put down a name, then it couldn't be claimed for a favor later on because who knew if the right mech had stepped forward? Anonymous benefactors got their thrills and chills from giving gifts to him out of shyness or prudence, from honest reactions untainted by whatever potential pressure knowing the gift-giver might put on him, or even from publically breaking the weird taboo on giving gifts in the first place. There were a dozen reasons why someone might choose to give a gift anonymously.

The merchant didn't worry about it. An admirer had given him a free present, and the rush of attention went straight down his back struts in a shivery cascade. The lingering bad mood from dealing with Onslaught evaporated into being completely, insufferably pleased with himself.

Swindle smiled widely. He'd missed being pampered. He'd missed knowing mechs covertly stared at him because he was a small, cute grounder. Being watched because he was a wily conmech with more weaponry than half the ranks was a given. Noticing and admiring him for the color of his optics and the way he pouted had nothing to do with military might or finances. Swindle was just as greedy for that kind of attention as he was for credits.

Some mechs didn't like to be objectified. Swindle reveled in it.

If objectifying him led to an anonymous note tacked to the wall next to his door, indicating there was a present for a 'Good Pet' in the common room? Objectify away. Blast Off and Onslaught would be there fueling up, unless the tactician had been called in for debriefing already. Perfect timing! Swindle's sudden good mood called for giving his anonymous admirer a bit of a show as a sign of appreciation, especially since it would be so public.

He made his way down to the common room and walked in. The tables were full, post-mission fueling and mid-shift idleness giving everyone not much else to do but gather here. Pulling all the Decepticons on Earth into a single mission screwed the ongoing shift schedules up, leaving the next shift and a half weaving between too tired from lack of recharge after battle or too jittery to recharge even though they were on schedule to do so. Swindle had a small side business selling Mixmaster's homemade knock-out solutions for just this situation. Mixmaster had a whole line-up of sedative-laced additives for post-combat refueling, and Swindle collected a tidy percentage of every sale, so he sauntered over to the closest table to schmooze with potential customers for a bit. Business before pleasure, after all.

The empty chair at the unofficial Combaticon table didn't get even a glance. He ignored the 'feel' of Onslaught leaning on the gestalt link. The polite proximity ping from Blast Off got shunted into his official message queue to be dealt with later when he went on-duty, which was not now and would therefore auto-dumped as no longer being relevant when his shift started. Neither of his slagging teammates ever seemed to learn better. No annoying spark-pushes or pinging was going to magically make him reconsider.

That wasn't important, however. The important thing was only peripherally about irritating Onslaught, really. This was _all_ about Swindle.

When nobody stepped forward to give him his present, Swindle concluded that the mech truly did want to remain anonymous. He'd missed that. Shy watchers were adorable, in that they gave expensive presents instead of directly buying his time. Something for nothing was the favorite deal of any merchant.

It didn't take long to figure out what he'd been given. Everyone else in the room was doing their best not to react, but it was kind of obvious the thing by the couches had been left for him. It had his name on it, for one thing.

Once he finished doing the rounds of the tables, Swindle slowly walked over and looked down at it. A smile twitched one side of his mouth. A wide, flat bottom with plenty of cushioning; low, turned up sides like cushioned walls; his name neatly written in small font near the shallow front side. A little thing, compared to most of the Decepticons, but just big enough for an Autobot-sized grounder if he curled up comfortably in it.

A pet bed, huh? He'd used to have one of these, long ago, before the war. Back when his regular customers would spoil him rotten trying to entice him to open for more sessions. Back on Cybertron, however, there had been a thriving economy and mechs had the means to repurpose or purchase stuff like this. In order to get this on Earth, it had to be custom-made.

He had his suspicions about who'd made this. If he investigated a bit, he could likely find out where the credits had flowed to and from.

Regardless, the amount of effort put into this gift flattered him.

He knelt beside it, aware that optics around the room were trained on him, and tested the inside of the bed. Oh. Oh, now that was nice. Somebody had gone the expensive route and lined the whole inside with chamois leather. The genuine product, if a scan of the stamp peeking out from a seam didn't mislead. This was a pricey bit of hands-off pampering, half comfortable resting place and half functional playbed. He could already picture his new set of regulars requesting this be used in sessions.

For this, he would have shown some appreciation in public even if Onslaught and Blast Off weren't currently ignoring him from their table. That just meant he'd enjoy it more.

Swindle put both hands down and crawled onto the bed, pushing his hands and knees into the cushions. He circled a few times, bounced once, and then flopped over onto his side. He curled up and dug his side into the leather. His optics dimmed to a smoky purple. This was luxury. The material smelled of some kind of chemical treatment that brought up old memories of the best detailer shops back home, in a different time and on a different world. The scent spread over his plating and rose in rich cloud around him when he burrowed a little further into the chamois.

The temptation was too great.

The entire common room stopped what they were doing and stared as the small grounder gave a full-body wriggle before rolling ecstatically. Soft, exaggerated grunts of pleasure accompanied each shoulder rolling in the leather, and his back curved into strange shapes as he self-polished with all the abandon of a turbofox in a grit bath. He scooted one way and back the other, determinedly rootling in a tight circle as he turned over and polished his other side. Murmurs broke out across the room as big, bad Decepticons smothered bewildered smiles at how they couldn't stop staring. That was just cute. That was just plain cute. That was kicking heels and Swindle burnishing the side of his face on the chamois in absolute abandon, having fun and showing every moment of it.

Thundercracker almost stood up, optics wide and half a smile on his face. The merchant caught sight of him barely restraining himself. The Seeker just wanted to _touch_, to pick him up and take a polishing cloth to his face, the vents of his helm, each of his hands, and then cuddle him afterward when the smaller Decepticon was a limp puddle of contented pet mech. Swindle wriggled some more and twisted over onto his back. _Astrotrain_ almost stood up, big hands open, because the need to tweak those little flailing limbs kept getting stronger. Scrapper leaned back in his chair to see around his teammates.

Blitzwing dropped onto the couch, almost squashing Thrust before the jet scrambled out of the way, and he dropped a hand over the side of the couch to tickle Swindle's exposed midriff. The Jeep beeped his horn and curled around the hand, still scrunching about on the leather, and the room drowned in envy that nobody else had thought of that first.

Swindle purred his motor and gloried in the attention, and the gestalt bond prickled as a hint of understanding made it through at last.

* * *

**[ * * * * * ]**


	6. Pt 6

**Title: **Lease or Buy

**Warning: **Pet play, cat barf.

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

* * *

**[* * * * *] **

**Part Six **

**[* * * * *] **

* * *

When Scrapper took out the first treat, Swindle hesitated.

It wasn't from real fear, but because that was his role in the session. He became a different pet depending on the client. Astrotrain paid for a rambunctious pet who sometimes transformed and accelerated excitedly around the base before being reined in again; Thundercracker wanted a cuddly, dumb pet with an occasional spark of attitude; Blitzwing favored a playful pet who had to be worn out before he'd flop down across the triplechanger's legs while football was on.

Well, Scrapper liked to tame a wild creature. Swindle's file on this particular client listed him as enjoying hard work for a suitable reward, less of a game than realism. He wanted Swindle to eye him warily and hide under furniture, not curl up in his lap and beg for attention. The wildlife of Cybertron was long gone, but Scrapper could have done well as a rehabilitator for damaged technimals. If, that was, he could have tolerated releasing them once they were repaired and trusting of him.

Lacking real wild creatures, he'd shell out a minor shuttle-load of credits and favors to buy sessions with a pet mech who'd act the part. Although it hadn't been as easy as just throwing money around. Swindle hadn't even started returning his messages until Mixmaster asked if the merchant would tag a second session on to the end of his usual one.

Mixmaster, and Mixmaster alone, still had purchasing rights. The chemist had always played nice when it came to business with him, and Swindle liked that about him. The other Constructicons? Frag that. They were lucky he still sold them anything, but his time definitely wasn't on their purchasing list anymore. After the scrap Hook had pulled, Swindle had made it _very_ clear than the other Constructicons could sit on an axle and rotate before he'd sell a session to any of them again.

There had been electrical burns on his fuel pump. _Electrical burns_. Hook had gotten Swindle's chest open after Scrapper coaxed him up onto the repair berth, and the surgeon had spent the entire surgery finding small ways to hurt the toy mech. Nothing big. Very purposefully, nothing that couldn't be excused as an 'accident' if he'd been called out on it. Which he hadn't been, because the entire session went by without Scrapper reprimanding him on the abuse.

Swindle had played along, reacting with bewildered fear and flinching like a brainless beast, but he'd taken note of every 'accident.' Behind the confused whines and wide optics, he'd been adding them up as he patiently waited for the end of the paid time.

The second the session clock turned over, he'd sat up and shoved Hook away from him. "Get away from me."

Hook had sneered, "What do you think you're - "

He'd pinged both Scrapper and Hook with the timestamp for the beginning and end of the session, a receipt for services rendered, and crossed his arms over his mostly-repaired chest cavity. "Session's over. I want repairs, and I don't think you can tell the difference between play and reality, so **get away from me**. You want a toy to squeeze the stuffing out of, I can get you a drone for a good price. Don't bother asking for me again, because you and I won't be doing this business again. Now back off and let someone who can honor a contract finish my repairs. Mixmaster or Long Haul will do."

"How dare you." Pulling against Scrapper's suddenly restraining grip on his shoulder, Hook had taken a step toward the smaller Decepticon. Wrath made his visor narrow in threat even before he started speaking. "You throw big words for such a weak mech. When your body's unconscious on the slab next time, you'll regret slandering **me**. My word's worth twice what any greasy conmech's is. You sell out to whoever flips a few credits at you, and you think you have some sort of moral high ground? Ha! You're nothing but a piece of shareware, giving the right price to anyone with cash or credit. We all know you'd jump on the chance to offer yourself up for interfacing if you thought anyone would bid for a used, worthless program-slave. Frag, Megatron's probably got Onslaught begging for it. Everybody knows your shuttle's on bottom in every way over in the launch hangar, and the only reason Brawl's not a virus-ridden shell is because Soundwave keeps our firewall updates coming. Primus knows that Vortex would take half of **us** and be happy he's finally of some sort of use around here."

"That's enough, Hook," Scrapper had said softly, but his fingers had indented the surgeon's shoulder. "Long Haul can finish closing up here - "

"No," Hook had spat back. He'd yanked himself loose and advanced on the smallest Combaticon. "No patient's going to dictate to **me** how things get done in my repair bay!"

"He's not telling you; **I** am," the Constructicon team leader had said at the same time Swindle pulled a pistol out of a hidden thigh holster and set the barrel right on the tip of Hook's nose.

The whole room had frozen. Arms merchant. Right. In case Hook had needed a reminder that the relatively tiny grounder on his repair slab sold weaponry to the already armed and dangerous for a living.

"And no client's going to dictate to **me** how I sell my product," the merchant had said in a voice of cold steel. The ruthlessness of an open market had stared down the two Constructicons, one seething but helpless and the other now studiously neutral. Scrapper's body language had said clearly that he wouldn't interfere in this showdown unless Swindle took the shot. "Especially not when the product's my body. I will sell how I want, when I want, to whom I want, and **only on my terms**. Think what you want about my unit. Say what you want. 'Everyone' can spread rumors about me whoring myself out, for all I care. But you try and lay a hand on me that isn't contracted, and I'll take it off you. This is business, nothing more or less, and that means you abide by the rules."

Still staring levelly down the pistol, refusing to acknowledge the aching of his chest, Swindle had proceeded to go through his standard session end follow-up. Usually he'd have given the customer a couple days to soak in the experience and think about the session before reviewing it for satisfaction levels and overall impression, but this hadn't been done for customer feedback. He'd read off his list of what Hook had done to him, checking off every violation of Scavenger's verbal agreement with him prior to the session start. Every pain had been listed.

Fists shaking at his sides, Hook had stood there and listened while glaring bloody murder. Every word had been a direct blow to his pride. He'd attempted to skip the contract violations by implying that Swindle likely gave the goods away for free, but the Jeep hadn't gone chasing the bait. If they'd gotten into a nice, distracting argument about honoring agreements made to perceived 'lower' mechs who bargained away their bodies, Hook could have claimed that the contract hadn't been valid in the first place. Maybe he'd have even tried to claim that paying money for free product meant the Combaticon owed him more.

However, Swindle had experience in this sort of word-weaseling. He's gotten this slag thrown at him in the past. Mechs tried to play lawyer on him without understanding that he wouldn't get riled enough to forget that business was business. Instead of arguing over whether anything to a 'mech like him' had to be honored, he'd just listed the ways a mech like _Hook_ had failed to honor a business contract.

He'd finished by resting his arm in his lap, pointing the pistol at Hook but no longer directly in the face. "As I said: I want someone to repair me who knows how to honor a contract. That someone isn't you."

When Scrapper had pulled on Hook's shoulder again, the surgeon had silently turned away and strode toward the door.

Swindle had called after him, "By the way, Hook? Frag Vortex hard, and he'll enjoy it. He likes it when mechs are stupid enough to link into his systems. Something about being a professional interrogator, I'm sure."

The surgeon had stopped in the door for a moment, all but vibrating with rage, before leaving without a word.

Scrapper had waited until he was gone before turning cautiously to face the Jeep. "Don't," Swindle had said curtly. "You knew what he was doing. That's as much a contract violation as causing me pain in the first place. I'm holding you responsible, and I won't be doing any more of this sort of business with you, either, not unless the offer comes with an apology and a penalty fee. Since Hook'll never lower himself to apologizing to me," that flashing smile had a cutting edge, "don't bother contacting me about anything but our usual business deals."

That had been the end of that. Long Haul had been sent in to finish his repairs. That had been an awkward silence.

Giving Scrapper a taste of what was on the market had practically guaranteed he'd be back. Swindle had known it. He'd ignored any messages from the Constructicon leader, waiting for niggling need to turn into the sort of addicted craving a few of his past clients had felt. Sending Mixmaster to do his dirty work had only told the merchant how much Scrapper wanted it.

Trying to eel around his terms hadn't made Swindle any more inclined to open for business. "No, and if he happens to 'just show up' during our session, I'll consider it a cancellation on your part and keep the fee."

The chemist hadn't replied to that message. Point made.

The next day, Swindle had received a message from Hook. He was tempted to have it printed out and framed. It was a formal, stilted letter of apology. The stiff words were a recognition of poor business practices on the part of Party One, who admitted to the wrongdoing and offered sincere regrets to the offended Party Two. It'd obviously been a form Hook had filled out at the request - and only because of the request - of his gestalt, as the nasty, bile-filled footnote tacked on at the end had snidely informed him.

The merchant had laughed and started negotiating with Scrapper for a second session.

Which led to today, after Mixmaster had finished feeding him the new Alaskan oil-derived energon samples. Swindle had really enjoyed that. He'd run his engine enthusiastically, crouching on the floor in the middle of the Constructicon's quarters while Mixmaster cleaned up around him. The chemist had worked slowly. He'd mostly just watched Swindle lap from the bowl in front of him, tongue flicking quickly in and out of the best blend offered that session. The smaller Decepticon's expression had been one of contented bliss.

Now, offered a similar treat in gel form, Swindle peered out from behind a chair at it and downshifted to let his motor make a lower, warier noise. An hour made all the difference when it spanned two totally different sessions. Mixmaster wanted a pet to test his concoctions on; Scrapper wanted a pet to tame. Good thing Swindle was good at playing different parts.

"Come here," Scrapper called quietly. He stood, deliberately slow, and retreated a few steps back to his berth in order to sit. It made his bulk look less threatening. "Come on out, Swindle. Come on."

Swindle had spent thirty minutes cowering and hissing so far in this session. He'd responded to Scrapper gradually inching closer by tolerating the approach right until the Constructicon moved wrong in some way. Then he'd skittered across the room to find somewhere else to hide. Under the berth. On the berth, crammed into the corner. Under the desk. Scrabbling at the door trying to get out. And now hiding behind the chair.

Changing tactics was a smarter idea than continuing their slow-motion chase around the room. Swindle decided to go with it, even if his tanks were pleasantly filled already from Mixmaster spoiling him. Treats were treats, after all, and anything made by the Constructicons was better than most of what the rest of the Earth-based Decepticons made for themselves. He slid out from behind the chair and sniffed delicately at the treat on the floor.

"That's it. That's a good Swindle."

Something smelled wrong. The Jeep cocked his head to the side to eye Scrapper while giving the treat another sniff. His sensor suite feedback came back clean, chemical receptors registering nothing but the rich aroma of concentrated energy, yet there was a cautionary pop-up on his HUD. He crouched close to the floor over it and growled, optics narrowing and armor sleeking close to his body when Scrapper shifted slightly. The engineer stopped moving and continued talking nonsense in that soothing tone that Swindle tuned out. He had an alert to pin down.

What was it? The treat smelled fine, except it didn't. He didn't know what was setting off alarms, but he knew better than to ignore them. Still staring suspiciously at the Constructicon sitting on the berth, he lowered his helm to give the treat a little lick. The in-vent from Scrapper didn't go unnoticed, and Swindle's client file updated a note about Scrapper's preferences. Drawing out accepting things from the Constructicon's hand evidently met with approval. Scrapper wanted the tension and subdued victory of _winning_ a pet's trust.

Even as the client file auto-saved, Swindle had his answer. The standard chemical receptors Starscream had built into him had been augmented by Swindle's own sources in the years since coming to Earth. He'd added specialized equipment for business purposes, since 'taste-testing' some of his more lethal wares worked surprisingly well for evaluating their potency. The standard sensor suite could tell him chemical composition, not how long ago elements had been mixed or the _exact_ composition. That could be important in his line of work. Not in this line of work, at least not prior to this, but right now that nonstandard equipment told him the energon treat he'd licked had been tampered with.

It was laced with something tasty in small amounts, delicious in larger amounts, and reacted badly with processor plants no matter the amount. If he ate this thing, his tanks would seize up in reaction now or later. When exactly they were _meant_ to rebel depended on whether this was intentional or not.

Pretty purple optics gave Scrapper a doubtful look. It didn't make sense that the Constructicon would poison him after going to this extent to get another session. It made even less sense that Scrapper would hand-feed him treats meant to make him sick. Swindle could make the obvious connection between treats and illness. If it wasn't Scrapper trying to poison him, that implicated Mixmaster or whoever had made the treats in the first place, and that seemed equally foolish. It was possible that the saboteur didn't know about Swindle's self-upgrading; since most mechs didn't have the sensors to detect anything beyond a good taste, his ability to sense the additional ingredient might be unexpected. But even if he himself didn't make the connection, surely Scrapper would realize something was wrong.

Possibly, but that balanced on how many treats Scrapper planned on feeding him from that box. Timing made all the difference in sabotage. By Swindle's calculations, more than five treats would reduce reaction time until it was within the session itself. Anything less than five treats, and the session would finish before his processor plant started rebelling against what he'd fed it. A mech without sensors to catch the tell-tale additive might not make the connection between treats and illness. The saboteur likely wanted him to think it was just a reaction to too-rich energon hitting his tanks all at once.

The merchant weighed pros and cons. He had an idea of just who would want poison him. His theory depended on whether or not Scrapper kept giving him treats, because he didn't know what the frag was going on if Scrapper was doing this deliberately.

Only one way to find out: he drew it out. He retreated and hid some more, dragging the treat back to his safe spot behind the chair before he ate it. He made Scrapper toss more to lure him out. He nibbled. He sniffed and licked. Wiggling fingers holding treats were eyed with deep suspicion. The Jeep paced and whined, sliding closer to the berth inch by careful inch as the Constructicon's soothing monologue lulled his wariness, but it was the treats Swindle the pet was after. Close to the floor, he oozed forward to paw at the floor in Scrapper's direction, frustrated by the energon held just out of reach. Scrapper enticed him closer yet, coaxing him along with tidbits fed in teensy morsels, rewarding him for every inch.

Eventually, forty minutes and twelve treats later, Swindle hopped up on the berth at long last to tramp in a small circle on his hands and knees while Scrapper watched in delight. He then took great pleasure in starting to gag as his tanks signaled intent to purge. "Gluurk. _Hoo_uuurk! Ulgh-_ulgh_-glurk-**_urk!_**"

"Swindle?" Scrapper shot to his feet and stood there, hands hovering anxiously over the pet mech.

Swindle coughed thickly and hunched, shoulders shaking as gagging became terrible horking sounds. He grinned around the automatic, semi-pained grimace. Scrapper's voice held a note of panic he'd never heard before, and it was hilarious. He intentionally opened every stopcock between power plant and his main tanks, letting the tainted energon trigger an the auto-purge on everything without resistance. Scrapper might not have been the one who'd poisoned him, but he'd have no choice but to find out who had. Not if Swindle made a big enough scene, which he thoroughly intended to.

Cleaning up the messes and dealing with the consequences was part of having a pet, after all.

"Swindle, are you - hold on, wait, don't - " The engineer leapt for a disposal can. "Wait! No no no, wait, not there!"

Luckily for the role he played, it was hard to gag and snicker at the same time. "Bluu_arrrf!_" came out instead of laughter as he barfed all over the berth. When the first purge finished, he smacked his lips together and licked his teeth, still making little unhappy noises. "Blech bluh _gak_-kaf." The second purge hit, and he retched violently, back struts arching up and vents heaving as his intakes forced opened in ugly, hacking coughs. "Kaf-kaf-**kaf** - glaaauurk!"

That wasn't so pleasant, but the satisfaction he derived from Scrapper's dismay made it worth it. "What…in Primus' name…" The Constructicon just stood there, disposal can hanging from his hands as he stared at the puddle spreading across his berth and dripping onto the floor. Spray had gotten on the walls. "Swindle, are you - of course you're not okay, but is this - did you mean to - "

A quick status ping highlighted his power plant's involuntary purge-reaction for Scrapper, and the larger Decepticon winced. "I…see. I suppose you couldn't help yourself, then." He blinked as the ping hit him again, the highlight insistently brighter. No, he hadn't been able to help himself. Being poisoned wasn't something mechs did intentionally.

Not without good reason, anyway. Swindle had one. He'd eaten the tainted treats, and now it was Scrapper's problem what happened from here. In the meantime, he whimpered and hid under the desk, playing sick toy mech to the hilt. He managed to upchuck some scummy tank cleanser on Scrapper when the engineer tried to draw him. Again, not pleasant, but wonderfully fun. The look in the engineer's visor was priceless.

He had more fun listening to the argument when Mixmaster came in to take a sample off the floor for analysis. "Well, I didn't do it! I know exactly what goes into my blends, and there wasn't anything in them that would cause this."

"Look at him! He's obviously not doing it intentionally." Scrapper winced when Swindle moaned like a dying thing and puked up another few liters of used tank cleanser. The auto-purge emergency scour tasted like soap and wet electricity. Yuck. Swindle was exaggerating his misery because the client hadn't canceled the session, but yeah, he wasn't doing this intentionally.

Deliberately throwing up as messily as possible, over as many things in Scrapper's room as he could? _That_ was intentional. He'd been curled up on the chair when he'd lost it this time, and Scrapper wasn't happy.

Half an hour passed. Scrapper fretted over him while Mixmaster tested his purged energon.

The merchant could actually see when Mixmaster passed on his test results. Swindle had the pleasure of witnessing Scrapper storm out of the room and return hauling Hook by the crane arm. He truly did have to wonder about the internal dynamics of the Constructicons. Hook looked ready to chew glass, but the surgeon mutely set down the bucket he was carrying and started cleaning the mess up using a squeegee and a mop. There wasn't a sullen look or single peep of protest for the rest of the session as Scrapper gathered Swindle up and stroked the Jeep's tires, murmuring soothing nonsense as he coaxed the pet mech into drinking a fresh cube of plain energon.

Swindle made sure to vomit a couple more times, just out of spite.

* * *

**[* * * * *] **


	7. Pt 7

**Title: **Lease or Buy

**Warning: **Pet play

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

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**[* * * * *] **

**Part Seven**

**[* * * * *] **

* * *

There were clawmarks on the furniture.

_That_ wasn't new. Skywarp picked at the armrest of any chair he sat in, and his restless fingers had whittled grooves into the edge of the table the Seekers typically sat at. Fights scored random slices down the couch cushions. Somebody had carved a Decepticon logo into the door. Ravage and his technimal brethren left divots wherever they walked or perched, but even regular mechs left their marks

See, Cybertronians didn't really have claws like beastformers did. Full-on pointy metal fingertips made regular life difficult outside of combat. It wasn't as if claws were made of harder alloys than most armor plating. Unless a mech got lucky and hit a joint or something under the plating, having claws in combat usually meant crimped fingertips from rebounding off armor - or snapped fingers from too much force behind a blow. The sharp points of claws were dangerous weapons, but the weaker, thinner metal gave way. Shaped claws on the end of each finger didn't work out except for those who were built specifically for clawing through their opponents, and that kind of build was relatively rare.

What most mechs _did_ have were slides. Blunt fingertips worked most of the time, but the friction pads on their fingers didn't always have the fine control necessary for small tasks. Things like peeling stickers for detailing, repairwork and construction, or picking dirt out of crevasses. Small, fiddly things of that nature. Everyday, normal things, if not flashy, dangerous combat things.

Where medics and engineers had fingers that could be uncapped to reveal useful, tinier tools for such things, everyone else got slides. Specialty tools were for specialty frametypes. The rest of them had what the manufacturers had given them. The tops of the last joint of their fingers were made of a harder grade of alloy than their natural metal, like a small patch of protective armor against heat and pressure. Fingers were already vulnerable. Putting them out there grabbing stuff got them damaged, often, so the tip of the finger got that extra layer of protection.

The additional layer of sturdier plating already served that concrete purpose, but it slotted into the finger on a spring-loaded system. When mechs flexed the last joint of their fingers just right, the slides popped out. It gave a thin, sharp edge off the end of their blunt fingers, much like a human fingernail, only less organic and more retractable. After they were done using the slide, relaxing the joint triggered an inbuilt hydraulic system to crank the slides safely back in to avoid cutting anything they didn't mean to.

It'd be a useful modification for combat if the hydraulic system weren't so slagging delicate. When someone - like, say, Starscream - popped his slides in combat, it was because that lucky shot at softer tubing or optics. Fighting dirty worked for some mechs, especially flyers who were already at a disadvantage in hand-to-hand combat. However, those were also the mechs who tended to file their slides into nasty little points, or reinforce them to where they might as well be claws, because the things didn't really retract too well anymore.

Regardless of how some mechs used their slides, the tiny mechanisms were the most frequently broken bit of their anatomies in combat. Some Decepticons never learned not to hit hard things with what amounted to flimsy blades. The slides were functional for what they were meant for, and they weren't meant for the rigors of combat. The Constructicons spent an absurd amount of their time acting as manicurists fixing the blasted things.

And then there were mechs like Skywarp, who painted their slides with glitter for the sheer, baffling craziness of it. He claimed he'd gotten the idea from watching human TV, but nobody bought that excuse. The way he idly picked at anything in his hands betrayed the fact that he just really liked popping his slides at any given opportunity. Primus help the Autobots if he broke a slide in combat, because he went after whoever had done it with murder in his optics.

Therefore, knowing all of this, the scratches on the furniture directed a series of odd looks at the black-and-purple Seeker first. "I didn't do it!"

"Uh-huh." Nobody believed him, least of all Thundercracker. The blue Seeker gave him a weary glare. "Other people have to use that couch, you know."

"I know! I didn't fragging do it, so get your nosecone outta my afterburners about it!" Skywarp swept the room with a glare of his own. "All of you! I don't roll around on the floor clawing at chairs, so cut it out with the muttering!" His voice fell. "Bunch of gossips. Fragging walk in the room, and everybody's gotta stick their noses in my business blaming me for scrap I didn't recycle."

Of all mechs, _Skywarp_ was complaining about busybodies. Uh-huh. Thundercracker's glare turned into a quizzical, rather amused look. Across the room, someone snickered. Skywarp huffed.

Astrotrain walked into the common room right then, and the mystery of the clawmarks at weird heights on the furniture came to an abrupt close.

Over by the couch, the brightly colored groundframe who'd been dozing between shifts rolled over, shook himself, and proceeded to stretch. By popping his slides and reaching up to the top of the couch to sharpen them.

"...oh." Thundercracker and Skywarp stared, although Skywarp's self-righteous expression faded away into bemusement as Swindle arched his back down and purring his motor. Thundercracker just leaned forward, interested. Little skritching sounds filled the stunned-silent room, and Swindle tore long rents down the side of the couch in one luxuriously prolonged pull. Cables creaked. He yawned and worked his fingers to set his slides in and begin again.

Astrotrained pulled a bottle out and spritzed him with water. "No! Bad! Stop that."

"Hssst!" Surprised, the Jeep scrambled, apparently forgetting his slides were still set into the couch. They caught, and momentum flipped him over on the pet bed he'd been sleeping in. A second spritzing of water took him full in the face, and Swindle yowled in a furious panic. His legs kicked until he struggled loose.

"Bad!" Astrotrain repeated sternly even as the Combaticon transformed and zoomed behind the nearest table in a screech of rubber and affronted dignity. "No scratching the furniture!" the triplechanger called after him. The rest of the common room reset their optics when he stowed the water bottle and continued toward the energon dispenser as if nothing had happened.

"Training?" Thundercracker asked as he passed.

"Yup." Astrotrain sounded almost proud of himself. "Humans do it with their cat things. No repair nanites, right? So the critters have to sharpen their toes on stuff."

Skywarp cocked his head, optics distant while he looked that up. "Not their toes. Claws."

"Eh, whatever. Same deal." It was all good to Astrotrain. He got to train the pet, and that was all that mattered.

Except that he hadn't thought out the limits on the session contract. On-duty time was off-limits, but Swindle had carefully haggled with Astrotrain over the details of how they'd work out a long-term training scenario. Astrotrain was paying out the rockets for an extended, non-session pet training, and they were still figuring out how to make it work. The idea centered around Astrotrain 'catching' the pet mech misbehaving repeatedly so he could correct Swindle through spritzing and a swat or two. It would go on until Swindle 'learned' better.

It was up to the merchant to find opportunities to claw things. Any time Astrotrain was also off-duty and Swindle pinged him with a 'playtime' marker meant the game was on. The more public, the better, because Astrotrain paid extra for witnesses. The mech did so love to appear in control, powerful, and looked up to.

Which didn't work out so well for him when Swindle did the obvious thing and found the most public place possible to misbehave: the control bridge. Admittedly, he waited for night. He showed up during the graveyard shift, when the highest ranking officer on deck was Soundwave, but come on. Give him some credit for bearings of steel. It wasn't Megatron himself, but _Soundwave_ was on deck.

Part of Swindle fully believed he'd be thrown in the brig to rot for a couple weeks in response to this stunt, but the payoff would be worth it. And Soundwave had to be at least peripherally aware that responsibility for Swindle's behavior in this instance could be redirected to his temporary 'owner.' Swindle the pet was a fussy, brainless bitlet in need of training, and it was Astrotrain's fault for letting him get out of sight.

Heh heh heh. Being irresponsible could be fun.

Swindle set his slides into Megatron's throne and began to tear the metal. _Skrepe rip rip skreeip._

Incredulous optics stared from every duty station. Nobody could believe what they were seeing. The merchant smirked and narrowed his optics to pleased slits, revving his engine happily as he pulled long scratches down the back of the throne. It was more of a command chair than anything like a throne, but it was a throne nonetheless. The only person besides Megatron who dared to touch it was Starscream.

And here was Swindle, sharpening his slides on it. Well, more like blunting them, but whatever worked for the client. _Skritch rip skreep rip_.

Soundwave stood up. Swindle kept working his fingertips into the throne, keeping half his attention on the superior officer slowly approaching. He was either about to get a beat-down, or -

A request ping hit him. The merchant gleefully sent back an edited copy of his current session contract, details deleted out but the rest approved for public posting as per his agreement with Astrotrain. The mech _wanted_ everyone to know who was in charge of Swindle when a session was on.

Something the triplechanger hadn't thought all the way through, because he came skidding onto the control bridge like his aft was on fire, already sputtering apologies to the stoic Communications Officer standing by the makeshift scratching post formerly known as Megatron's throne. The bridge shift burst into laughter at his embarrassment. "Soundwave! Fraggit, I'm - I looked away for **two minutes**, I didn't know - I wouldn't - I can fix this, don't worry, I brought, uh…" Astrotrain sorted through the handful of epoxies and scratch fillers he must have grabbed out of a repair bin during the mad sprint here.

Meanwhile, Soundwave had Swindle scruffed by the spare tire on his back. The Jeep fuffed his muffler and beeped his horn angrily. Astrotrain gave him the helpless glare of someone who'd done this to himself and knew it. The smaller Decepticon flexed his hands and eyed the throne, and the glare turned into an alarmed look. Swindle the toy mech hadn't learned his lesson, it seemed. Soundwave leveled a coolly disapproving look on the owner who'd released such a poorly trained pet, and Astrotrain smiled weakly. Oops. His bad.

The good news was that Soundwave let Astrotrain off after two hours of fixing the scratch marks and apologizing.

The bad news was that Astrotrain kept spritzing Swindle with the slagging water bottle. The Jeep curled up at the end of his leash and sulked. It got him sprayed more, so he got in a few scratches at the communication station before his owner could haul him away. There was more disapproval from Soundwave. Astrotrain apologized some more. The bridge shift was highly entertained.

All in all, Astrotrain was extremely embarrassed but ridiculously pleased by the results of the training. That was the _really_ good news.

The really _bad_ news was that eventually Megatron was going to find out what happened, and they'd be lucky to escape with a beating.

Oh well. At least Swindle got paid.

* * *

**[* * * * *] **


	8. Pt 8

**Title: **Lease or Buy

**Warning: **Pet play

**Rating: ** PG

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.

* * *

**[* * * * *]**

**Part Eight **

**[* * * * *]**

* * *

Every problem in the Middle East could be burnt down to one root cause: sand. There was sand _everywhere_. It got into _everything. _ Local humans hating each other because of water, religion, resources, past history, or oil were an inevitable symptom caused by the real problem: sand.

As much as Swindle loved the deals to be found in petty tyrants of small oil fiefs in the Middle East, he absolutely hated when he had to go visit the slaggers. All the luxury overly-rich idiots could afford, and they still decided to live in sandy locales. Swindle wasn't one for putting down different species, but he made an exception for humans, especially of the grandiose variety that didn't get the frag out of the desert when they had the chance. If anyone needed proof that humans were a species of lesser intelligence? He offered Exhibit A: the obscenely rich King And Emperor For Life of WahallaWherever, land of desert and abundant oil reserves, who nevertheless _still_ _lived there_.

Who wouldn't concede to meeting Swindle anywhere else but his dusty, sand-infested palace. Out of security concerns, apparently, as he was currently at war with his next door neighbor, Emperor And King For Life of OmbabaThatOverThere. Probably because of the sand.

Frag, _Swindle_ came back from the Middle East ready to start a war or three. "Don't even **start** with me," he snarled at Vortex as he stiffly exited Astrotrain's hold. The screechy scratch of sand in his joints accompanied every step. His fellow Combaticon paused, taken aback, and the merchant glared at him. "If what you have to say has anything outside of official orders involved, turn around and walk away. Right now."

It might have been the way the Jeep twitched when he said it, or the fact that Vortex had never seen his smallest teammate look at him without at least a touch of fear, but the interrogator took a step back. Sadist didn't mean unintelligent. "Long Haul sent me to redirect you to the correct storage bay," he said in a failed attempt not to sound defensive. "Mixmaster wants the test stats on the oil, and Bonecrusher's told me to help unload."

"Tell me which one, they're transmitted, and we don't need your help," Swindle snapped in quick reply. "Now go away."

"Uh." Vortex was likely about to say something about orders, but the look on Swindle's face stopped him. "You...sure? That's a lot of barrels to unload by yourself."

"Just do it," Astrotrain said, sounding one step from laughing. "He's got sand in places I don't even have."

Swindle, if possible, tensed further. His optics took on a hue that resembled that of the warning colors on poison frogs. "Whom do I have to kill," he ground out quietly, and the squeal of sand in his jaw mechanisms could be clearly heard, "to get this job finished and done with? Because I will do it with a smile."

Vortex's visor went just a little wide. "Is this a bad time to mention that Onslaught's been asking about - "

"**I will murder you and sell the body.**" For all the intense, sincere madness packed into his voice, Swindle kept the volume low. Conversational. The smile he wore was disarmingly friendly to match it. "This time, Megatron won't ever find out, and I will smelt your personality components myself."

There was just something about that threat being said by an Autobot-sized groundframe that shouldn't have been that threatening. However, since Swindle had proven that he could and would sell his own combiner team, following through on the murder threat really was threatening. He might be a small mech, but he'd walked away from a battle that'd taken out the rest of the Combaticons. Walked away, and profited.

Vortex: Experienced interrogator, sadistic killer, and thoroughly intimidated by a merchant. "I'll tell Bonecrusher you can handle it."

"You do that."

The helicopter didn't run out the door, but he did look over his shoulder before leaving as if making sure he wasn't being followed. Perhaps he felt the weight of Swindle's optics on the back of his helm.

Forewarned by Vortex's axed message, Swindle took the long way around to his quarters. Whatever Onslaught wanted to ask him could wait until the conmech relocated an ounce of his usual suave self, because otherwise he'd end up cursing in Arabic. As satisfying as that could be, Arabic curses had a tendency toward multiplying exponentially for every time he cited camels, fleas, or past ancestors. The flamboyant finale would likely involved the many ways he condemned Onslaught to losing his paintjob in a flogging of phallic objects during a plague of irritating insects. That would be cathartic, but it wouldn't get him any closer to being sand-free.

Swindle really, really wanted to get rid of the sand.

Needless to say, this was not the time he wanted an offer to drop into his message queue. No matter how generous the fee offered, a shower beat it out today. Although the mech it was from made his optics flicker. He would never have thought Soundwave, of any Decepticon, might want to play owner. Didn't he have Cassettes for that?

They were more symbiotes than pets, so maybe not. Other than the experienced handling done by a professional carrier mech, Swindle couldn't recall Soundwave laying a hand on his bunch before. In public, anyway, which didn't eliminate whatever might happen in the Comm. Officer's quarters, but Swindle couldn't imagine anyone like Ratbat or Ravage stooping to the role of pet.

It took effort to collect some smoothness, but Swindle sent back a polite rejection. He'd been out of the base for a month, and he hadn't taken a client in four. He just hadn't been in the mood.

A second offer dropped into his queue right as he opened the door to his quarters. "Thundercracker," he sighed. "Of course." It wouldn't be a return to base without his most reliable client wondering when he'd stop canceling their scheduled appointments. He'd deferred them indefinitely with a percentage off proviso, but Thundercracker didn't want the sessions to cost less. The Seeker wanted the sessions to be regular.

Thundercracker had gotten back into the groove of having someone to care for. Swindle had been fending off the mech in the common room before he left for the Middle East, the Seeker missed having a pet so much. Swindle liked the attention and all, but he had kind of hoped Skywarp would go through with the muttered comment and catch Thundercracker a human. They were messy critters and wouldn't last long, but caring for one of them would get the blue Seeker off his back for a while.

Oh, well. So much for that hope. He sent back a more personalized rejection, citing that, "I'm flattered by the interest, but the usual fee's not enough. I'm hitting the washrack and my berth, in that order. Try again next week." He should still be in the base, then. Some pampering might be nice.

Oddly, Soundwave sent another message not a minute after Swindle replied to Thundercracker. The Jeep had just sat down on the floor to take a brush to whatever he could reach, pre-washrack, because the only thing worse than sand in his upholstery was mud. He blinked at nothing and paused to open the message.

The previous offer had doubled, and Soundwave had added a brief message: "For your trouble, in consideration that the session interrupts off-duty time."

That was a very, _very_ nice offer. It raised Swindle's suspicions about just what kind of pet play a mech like Soundwave would be interested in. That whole telepathy thing made him squirm to begin with, and on top of that, seeing this kind of price tag being pushed at him…

He hesitated but sent back a second polite refusal.

Thundercracker's reply interrupted another start at working on his interior seats. The Seeker had added a digit on to their pre-negotiated price.

"Persistent slagger," Swindle chuckled to himself, fondly regarding the number. "Sorry, dear 'master.' Not tonight."

"I'm filthy," he told the blue Seeker in a candid message. "You don't want me in your lap right now. I'd get grit in your gears just by being in the same room."

Shaking his head, he went back to his brush and the slagging sand, but he didn't have more than a few seconds of peace before a message marked as _Urgent_ plinked straight to the head of his message queue.

His first thought was that Mixmaster had found something wrong with the oil. He'd have to go back to the desert to confront the King And Emperor of that wasteland sandpit, and he didn't _want_ to go back, and - "What in the name of Almighty Allah is wrong with you, Soundwave?"

"I have been informed," the message read, "that you are in a state of disarray exceeding normal standards. Payment may be prorated depending on the degree of accuracy in this information. Respond immediately."

He actually leaned back on his heels, he side-eyed the message so hard. Not even addressing what the message offered in neat little rows of numbers at the bottom, how the _frag_ had Soundwave found out how dirty he was, and _why_ did payment hinge on that fact?!

Wait, Soundwave governed Decepticons communications on or off Earth. Right, okay. That made sense. Swindle had just replied to Thundercracker's message. It didn't take the brightest mind around to make the connection there between Comm. Officer and intercepted message. That still didn't explain why, by Primus' precious undercarriage, Swindle's level of filth meant Soundwave was all up in his business!

The merchant did have to admit that the price list was pretty tasty.

Pure curiosity brought him to his feet. And greed. Greed was involved as well. The angle was bad, but he managed to turn enough to snap a decent picture down his body using his in-case-of-blackmail holdout camera. He pulled a face when he saw it, because he was covered in dusty and scratches. Ugh. So much sand.

He uploaded it anyway and sent it off with the question, "How much is this worth, in your estimation?"

Soundwave sent back a price quote. Swindle looked at it.

When he recovered, he gave it another look.

Had it been anyone but Soundwave, that number would have been the equivalent of an undignified, wheezing, "Give me that. Right now. **Now**."

Had it been anyone but Soundwave, that number would have had Swindle saying, "It's yours!"

Fear of telepathy and a scam made him hesitate a whole minute before agreeing.

Greed would kill him yet.

* * *

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
